Shore Leave
by Green Owl
Summary: Major Casey is set at liberty for 72 hours with no mission, no communication devices and no idea of what to do with himself. What's a man to do but head for the hills...?
1. Dismissed

Author's Note: Written for my dear friend, Ali, for the Inaugural Secret Santa Exchange at JELLIE Shippers (see my Author page for the website).

Timeline: Between "Chuck vs. the Sensei" (2.09) and "Chuck vs. the DeLorean" (2.10)

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I don't own or buy/sell/process this mindcrack - I just abuse the _hell_ out of it.

* * *

"Major Casey, a moment if you please," General Beckman commanded as soon as Walker and Bartowski had left his apartment.

John Casey snapped to attention. "Ma'am!"

"Did I or did I not order you to take personal time during this mission?" the general demanded.

Her tone indicated that she already knew the answer to the question and John involuntarily straightened his spine. "Yes, ma'am, you did, b– "

"You disobeyed a _direct _order, Major."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I do not take kindly to having my orders disregarded."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You do realize that this is grounds for suspension, if not outright dismissal, from the NSA?"

"Yes, ma'am."

General Beckman sat back a little, satisfied with the level of humility that her agent was displaying. "However, in light of the satisfactory resolution of this matter, I am willing to overlook your insubordination, provided that you take the vacation for which you were originally scheduled."

John's eyes went wide. "Ma'am?"

"Three days 'shore leave', Major Casey," the general explained. "No computers, no Blackberry, no e-mailing, no satellite uplink, nothing remotely connected to any sort of mission or accessing of government information. Only rest and relaxation permitted."

"But, ma'am, what if the Intersect flashes?"

"Agent Walker will see to any developments with regards to the Intersect."

"Ma'am, I'm not sure she's qualified to handle a mission by herself," John objected.

"Well I am." General Beckman folded her hands as she watched her operative intently through the video link. "Let me make myself perfectly clear, Major: if you attempt to access any of our databases, I will be forced to take appropriate disciplinary action, up to and including ordering your immediate termination. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," John replied, bowing his head slightly.

"Good. Now enjoy your vacation, Major, because it's effective _immediately_."


	2. Prepared

_Knock – knock – fuckin' knock._

John Casey stomped down the stairs and looked at the view screen.

_Grrr…_

He wrenched open the door. "_What?_"

"Why is your phone turned off?" Chuck demanded.

"Because I'm on vacation," John answered, turning his back on his guest.

Chuck followed him inside and almost tripped over a duffel bag. "You're kidding, right? John Casey is really taking an honest-to-God vacation?"

"I'm a man, Bartowski, not a machine," John replied as he glanced over the maps and mug shots tacked up on his mission board and started taking them down. "What do you want?"

"I need your help," Chuck replied. "It's an emergency."

"You had a flash?" John shot him a look over his shoulder. "Alert Walker."

"No – "

"Then what? Because as of one hour, three minutes and" – John checked his watch – "Fifty-two seconds ago, I am officially off-duty."

Chuck shook his head. "It's Ellie."

John cursed silently as he accidentally jabbed his pinky finger with a pushpin. "What about her?"

"I came home from work today and found this," Chuck said as he handed John a piece of paper.

It was a plain white half sheet with a note scrawled on it in deep blue, neat and precise handwriting.

John read it quickly.

_Devon – Going away for a few days. Want some time to be alone. Look after Chuck. There are three casseroles in the freezer for dinner this weekend. Pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees and bake each one for forty minutes. Do not put in the microwave or it won't taste right. I'll be back on Sunday. Ellie._

John shrugged. "So she went out of town for a few days. Where's the emergency?"

"She's gone!" Chuck said, pointing at the paper.

John handed the note back to him. "When are we going to get to the part where it qualifies as an emergency?"

"She's _gone_," Chuck emphasized.

John sorted the mug shots from the maps and placed them in separate piles on the table beneath the board. "I repeat myself, dumbass: _where _is the emergency?"

"I'm just – I don't know – worried about her. Like she might do something crazy."

"Why? Where'd she go? Tijuana?"

"No, Ellie's not that adventurous," Chuck answered. "My money's on Big Bear Lake. Our dad's aunt has a cabin up there. Great Aunt Nora's in Florida playing bingo, so it's empty. Ellie has a key, and it's the first place she'd go."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Big Bear one of the more 'sanitary' vacation spots in Southern California?" John asked as he placed the photographs into a labeled folder. "Not much trouble to get into, by my reckoning."

Chuck ran each of his hands through his hair, one after another. "Okay – okay – all I'm asking is maybe you could, I don't know, look in on her?"

"What part of 'I'm on vacation' do you _not _understand?" John demanded as he folded up the maps. "Your sister's a grown woman; she can take care of herself. Besides, how do you suggest I explain my presence in Big Bear without breaking my cover?"

Chuck started pacing. "I don't know! Maybe you can do some kind of shadow job on her – you know, tail her, 'bug' her, her car, all the rooms in the cabin – just like you bugged the hell out of every place I've ever gone or even thought about going."

"Can't take any surveillance equipment on vacation, Chuck. That's why it's called a 'vacation'," John explained with mock patience.

Chuck peered into the open duffel bag he'd almost tripped over. "This from the man who's taking a mini arsenal with him for a little 'R 'n R'?"

"Boy Scout motto: 'be prepared'," John stated before adding a pair of KA-BAR knives, a silencer and a scope to the bag and zipping it shut.

"For what? An invasion?"

"Who knows?" John replied with a smirk. "Maybe."

Chuck froze and turned to his handler. "I know I've told you this many, many times before, but I think it bears repeating: _Red Dawn_ was _just_ a movie."

"Significant research went into the premise and the script," John retorted absently as he eyed his recently repotted bonsai tree.

"Yeah, and it was a _movie_," Chuck reminded him. "So, where you going on vacation?"

John took up his pruning scissors and examined the tree from all angles. "Not that it's any of your business, but I'm not sure just yet. Wherever the road takes me, I guess."

Chuck sidled up to him. "Then it stands to reason that Big Bear's just as good a place to go as any, right?"

"Say I go and keep an eye on your sister," John conjectured as he concentrated on the lower levels of the tree. "What's in it for me?"

"Does there have to be anything in it for you?" Chuck asked, peering at the bonsai over John's shoulder.

John held up the scissors and made a few preliminary snips in the air, right next to Chuck's nose. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's not supposed to mean anything," Chuck responded, backing up a little. "It's just that I know you like her –"

John's hand stilled. "What?"

"Me, Sarah, Morgan, Lester, Jeff, Awesome – you bust on us all the time, but I have never, ever heard you say one thing remotely derogatory about Ellie," Chuck explained, slumping down into John's easy chair and slinging a leg over one of the arms. "So I started asking myself, 'Why doesn't Casey insult my sister?' Could it be a part of his mild-mannered cover? Or maybe it's because he hates microwaved food? And then it hit me…"

John grunted as he positioned the scissors at the edge of one of the limbs.

"You _like _her," Chuck announced, pointing an accusing finger.

"_What?!_" John cursed under his breath as he snipped off more of the branch than he intended.

Chuck jumped up out of the chair, clearly on a roll. "Yes, yes, it all makes sense now. You're _always _fifteen minutes early to dinner on Sunday, you _growl _at Morgan and me if we don't leave enough dessert for her, and when she does the dishes, you stay and _help her dry them_. That can only mean one thing: _you – like – her_."

"Or maybe it's that your sister happens to be a spectacular cook, I happen to appreciate a good meal, and it's the least I can do to assist her with the set up and the clean up if she is kind enough to invite me to her home for dinner," John said softly as he rose from a crouch to his full height to tower over Bartowski.

Chuck backed up a little, swallowing anxiously as he put the chair in between himself and John.

"Or maybe it's a whole lot simpler than that," John said as he put the scissors down on the desk and set his jaw. "Maybe all it boils down to is that, unlike a certain Stanford waste of space who's taking up my valuable vacation time, Eleanor Bartowski happens to be neither a moron nor an idiot."

Chuck chewed on the inside of his cheek and gazed at the floor. He reached into the breast pocket of his Nerd Herder shirt and tossed a folded up piece of paper and two twenty-dollar bills onto the desk.

"That's directions to the family cabin and money for gas. It'll take you less than a couple of hours to get there. The spare key's hanging up under the third step on the stairs leading up the deck."

John cocked an eyebrow as he folded his arms. "Why isn't Woodcomb going after her?"

"She's angry with him," Chuck answered. "Actually, it's more like she's majorly pissed off at him. His parental units ran roughshod over her with the wedding plans and Devon didn't do anything to stop it, so he's not exactly on her list of favorite people at the moment."

John just stood there, staring at him.

"Not to mention the fact that he's on-call the entire weekend. I'll be spending all of my waking hours scrubbing hardware with this new porn virus that just hit the net and Ellie would just as soon smack Morgan in the face with a frying pan as talk to him when she's in this kind of a mood." Chuck shook his head and bit his lip. "Normally she's the most responsible, levelheaded human being on this planet, but she's been known to make mistakes – _bad ones_ – when she gets angry like this. You're probably the one person who's far enough removed from all of this wedding insanity that she might listen to right now."

John pursed his lips, drummed the fingers of his right hand on his left biceps and glanced at the map and the money.

"Look, I know it's your vacation, and you certainly deserve time off," Chuck said quietly as he maintained eye contact. "All I'm asking is for you to make sure she's okay."


	3. Determined

_Santa Barbara…Ventura…Malibu…Santa Monica…Long Beach…Huntingdon Beach…Newport Beach…San Juan Capistrano…San Clemente…San Diego…_

Interstate 405 would take him up or down the coast to any little rundown, roach-infested, beachfront no-tell motel he cared to check into before he went out and started looking for trouble.

Major John Casey glanced at the empty space where Dr. Ellie Bartowski's BMW was usually parked, glanced at the passenger's seat where he'd tossed the directions and the cash that the kid had given him, then glanced at the latest GPS system installed in the dashboard of the third Crown Victoria he'd been issued since the start of this goddamn glorified goatfuck of a mission.

_Said she wanted to be alone_, he reminded himself.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel before he reached down and turned over the engine. He moved the gearshift from "park" to "reverse", backed out of the space, moved from "reverse" to "drive" and made his way to edge of the parking lot.

And then he sat there in his car, engine idling as he reviewed his options.

_North…?__  
_  
He had three sets of identities (driver's license, credit and business cards, with grocery and library cards for additional authenticity), a wad of cash, and nowhere to be for the next seventy hours and twenty-nine minutes.

_South…?_

He could go anywhere, be anyone, do anything – get drunk, get high, get laid – _anything_. No one would ever know.

_East…?_

Why spend his "vacation" staking out his mark's sister, especially if she wanted to be alone?

And then he remembered Chuck's words while reaching for the signal light:

_She's been known to make mistakes – _bad ones _– when she gets like this…_

"Fuck it," John muttered as he turned in the direction of Interstate 10 East.

Push comes to shove, he could always backtrack to San Bernardino.


	4. Wounded

"Turn. Right. And. Arrive. At. Destination," the monotonous voice of the GPS instructed as John Casey pulled into the driveway and reviewed his plan.

_Step One: Determine that Ellie Bartowski is indeed here._

_Step Two: Ascertain her state of mind and whether she poses a danger to herself or to others._

_Step Three: Depart this evening (tomorrow morning at the latest), find a place to crash, go to a dive bar, get drunk, get into a fight and get some. In that order._

And_ mirable dictu_, Bartowski's intel was spot-on because there was Ellie's BMW, parked under the carport.

_Well, well, well… step one's already accomplished. Dive bar, here I come – hoo-rah! _

John parked his car on the frosted grass, got out and rested his forearm on the roof of the Crown Victoria and took a moment to study the domicile.

The cottage was on the small side, but its location was ideal: nestled in a hollow among tall, majestic pine trees, not more than twenty feet from the shore of Big Bear Lake, with plenty of natural cover. It had one story, grey wood siding, a small brick chimney and an elevated redwood deck that wrapped all of the way around the structure.

It looked to be well-insulated and secure, the only issue being the exposed space under the deck – someone could hide under there with a small caliber pistol or a blowgun and do some serious damage.

A rhythmic chopping sound was coming from the other side of the house and John deduced that given the lack firewood stacked near the door to the deck, Ellie must be breaking up more fuel for the fireplace.

_Either that, or she's finishing up her latest axe murder_, he thought while stopping to retrieve the key from its hiding place as he climbed the steps to the deck.

He scanned the area, looking for anything suspicious – one of the first things his CO had ever taught him was that an accurate assessment of the terrain was crucial when it came to approaching the enemy.

_Know your enemy, Lt. Casey. Know what weapon will do the most damage to them. Know where they are, know how you're going to get to them, know where they're going to hide or retreat and know what's available for cover. _

Knowing Ellie as he did, John reasoned that she was more likely to offer him hot cocoa than pull any kind of weapon on him, so he was all right with the decision to forego his sidearm.

A quick peek inside the house revealed a large main room that was divided into two areas: living and eat-in kitchen.

He turned his attention to the view from the deck and whistled under his breath.

_Damn…_

John had been all over the continental United States as well as quite a few of the more interesting and colorful corners of the world, including the Khyber Pass, the Saudi Arabian desert, and most of the American territories in the South Pacific. He'd witnessed his share of natural wonders, from the _aurora_ _borealis _and its sister phenomena, the_ aurora australis,_ to the first luminous snowfall of winter in the Himalayas, to the mellow luxuriance of a tropical sunset on Guam, but not much compared to the pristine beauty of a North American mountain lake.

Winter was evident in the scattered mounds of slush melting on the rolling, frost-covered lawn as it sloped down to the shore where a faded red dock jutted straight out into the water, the end of it just wide enough for two people to sit side-by-side and take in the golden gleam of the afternoon sunlight glittering on the waves.

Across the lake, small cottages like this one shared the shore with lofty feathered evergreens that soared into the brilliant blue sky while a massive snow-covered mountain in the distance glowed lilac and lavender in the deepening afternoon.

He leaned on the railing and took a deep breath. The scent of pine wafting in the air, the gentle lap of the lake at the shore, the tug of a brisk breeze at the collar of his jacket – they were seducing him with their simplicity.

He had to be careful or he'd seriously consider spending all three days here, Intersect's smoking-hot sister, or no.

_Speaking of that, better go announce my presence._

John rounded the corner of the house and stopped short at the sight of her as she bent down to grab the pieces she'd recently split, tossed them into a little green wheelbarrow, and placed another large chuck of wood on the splitting platform.

Her back was to him and she was putting all five feet, eight inches of herself into splitting stout chunks of oak. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, a long-sleeved t-shirt and a fleece vest and she was moving in them with unexpected grace, swinging the axe with a ruthless cadence that spoke of unexpressed wrath and frustration.

_Right on target, every damn time, even though she's still furious_, he noticed, following the fluid motion of her hips and back as she bent over and stood up. _Pretty impressive._

He didn't know how long he stood there, but it was long enough for her to reduce the chunk into manageable sections, dump them into the wheelbarrow, stand up, whirl around, and aim the firearm she'd concealed within the chopped wood at him.

_She looks good holding a rifle,_ was his first (and very unexpected) thought.

_Not shotgun or a real rifle, probably a BB gun or something air-powered…_ was his second.

_Maintain your cover, maintain your motherfucking cover! _was his third.

John's thrust his hands up in the air. "Don't shoot!"

"What are you doing here?" Ellie demanded.

"Uh…"

"Chuck sent you, didn't he?" she countered, her eyes narrowing as she slowly slid her finger against the trigger.

He knew it wasn't as dangerous a situation as it could have been, but the mild-mannered persona he'd adopted for this mission required him to behave like it was a real threat. "Whoa! I think better when I don't have a weapon trained on me, so how about you put that down and we hash this out?"

"_Didn't he_?" she insisted, shaking a bit of hair out of her face.

"Well, in a manner of speaking…yes," John admitted, detesting the blend of resentment, fear and honesty that was sluicing through him. Resentment that she had gotten the drop on him; fear that his edge was slipping because – _damnit!_ – he hadn't anticipated that she would do something like this; and honesty because, much like his first grade teacher Mrs. Franklin, she had the unnerving ability to force the truth from him no matter how much he wanted to lie.

Ellie's jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth. "What part of 'I want to be _alone'_ do you not understand?"

"Listen, you've got it all wrong – I'm on vacation," John clarified, keeping a close eye on her hold on the weapon. She was shaking a little, but it looked to be from annoyance rather than muscle fatigue. Still, if she managed to get off a lucky shot, he might lose an eye or something worse, so better to not try grabbing it from her. "I was going to go fly to Vail for the weekend, but Chuck said it would be cheaper to drive out here, what with the economy tanking and airfare being what it is. See, he even gave me a key."

He maneuvered said item in his palm until it was clearly visible.

"Chuck didn't tell _me_ that you'd be coming up here," she challenged. "When did you talk to him?"

"Yesterday." Not _technically_ a lie, since John and Chuck did have a debriefing with Beckman on the day in question.

"Then you didn't know I was here already, did you?" she said.

"No." That wasn't a lie, either – John hadn't been _certain_ she would be there, just that there was an extremely high chance of it. "Chuck said your Great Aunt Nora is a snowbird and she plays bingo in Florida during the winter months and as long as I cleaned up after myself, she wouldn't mind me staying over for a weekend."

"And Chuck _didn't_ send you up here to look after me?" she pressed.

"I just thought I'd spend a little time unwinding, enjoying the scenery and maybe doing some light reading," John replied, deliberately dodging the question with a plausible explanation. "Why do you think Chuck would ask me to 'look after' you?"

Ellie scowled. "Probably to make sure I didn't hurt myself. He thinks that I tend get a little crazy when I'm pissed off."

"Are you?" he asked neutrally.

"Pissed off? Or crazy?" she countered. She considered his words for a second before she allowed herself a grim smile. "Maybe a little of both. But then again, you could have been someone dangerous like a thief or a murderer, and I believe in being safe rather than sorry."

_Smart girl_, John agreed, approving of her mindset. "Listen, you obviously want to be alone, so, why don't I leave and you can have the place back to yourself again?"

"Fine by me," she replied briskly.

"Are you going to lower the rifle?" John asked, eyeing the barrel that currently pointed at his head.

"What?" Ellie peered at him, then glanced down at her hands. "Oh, sorry! You know, it's not really a rifle, it's actually a Red Ryder–"

"_Ow!_"

"BB Gun…oh no…are you okay?"

* * * * *

"It's just a scratch," John objected as Ellie opened the door and guided him across the threshold. "Really, I'm fine."

"The hell you are; I _shot_ you," she countered, moving him to the kitchen table.

"With a _pellet_ gun," he pointed out.

"Doesn't matter if it's a pellet or a .50 caliber – a bullet's a bullet and this one needs to come out," she announced as she pointed to the kitchen table. "Now sit down and take off the jacket while I get my First Aid kit."

She walked into the bedroom, leaving John to look around while he put pressure on the wound and mentally cursed himself out yet again for being such an idiot.

The living room was paneled in oak, carpeted in dark grey sisal, and furnished with a sturdy couch, chair and ottoman covered in blue denim, a cedar chest, and a television stand. A pair of beanbags were stacked atop each other next to the fireplace and the wall was hung with all sorts of camping kitsch, including a rowboat shadow box, an oar and a cast-iron herd of miniature moose trooping across the walls. Above the fireplace was a plaque that read, "Welcome to Camp Run-A-Muck – Keep Out The Muck Or I'll Make You Run For Your Life".

Evidently Great Aunt Nora had a sense of humor.

The kitchen had a faded linoleum floor, old-fashioned oak cabinetry and plain, ancient white fixtures, but it was impeccably clean. John glanced down at the white plastic placemats with their faded ivy borders and took a deep breath.

_I'll get myself some bactine and a Band-Aid up and them I'm outta here_, he promised himself as he unzipped his jacket and eased out of it.

"Shirt's gotta go, too," Ellie ordered as she set the First Aid kit on the table and surveyed the damage. "Come on, off with it."

"You sure this is necessary?" John asked.

He had a lot of scars and bruises from his latest mission and he did _not_ feel up to explaining any of them to her.

"Of course it is," she answered as she began putting on a pair of latex gloves. "I can't see the point of entry if you don't, so you take it off or I cut it off of you."

John had rarely met anyone who wasn't intimidated by him in some way. He was much, much taller than the average man, built like a Sherman tank and _everything_ about him was huge – his build, his hands, his feet, his, um…other important attributes.

He was the intimidation factor in a mission, the "bad cop" in a interrogation, the brute force ensuring total cooperation in dealing with a recalcitrant criminal.

He was Major John A. Casey, USMC (retired) and he was able to make grown men wet themselves in abject fear with a lift of his eyebrow and an accompanying growl.

None of that mattered a whole hell of a lot right now when he was up against the likes of one Eleanor Faye Bartowski, M.D.

God knows he tried to stare her down, but she stared right back at him before cocking her head to the side, smiling and snapping the second glove into place. "Of course, the choice is yours."

John heaved a sigh and relented, reaching behind his neck for the scruff of his long-sleeved black T-shirt to pull it over his head "Damn, that _stings_."

"Of course it does," she said, helping him with the motion. "What do you expect when you get…shot…?"

He followed her gaze as it slid down his torso. "What?"

"Whoa, those look painful," Ellie commented, biting her lip as she dropped his shirt onto the table. "Where'd you get them?"

John looked down at the patchwork of livid purple and sickly green splotches on his torso before he started pointing to various injuries and "embellishing the truth". "Well, this is from a refrigerator that almost crushed me at the Buy More on Monday; this is courtesy of unloading the newest mega-wide screen TVs on Wednesday; this is from breaking up Jeff and Lester's reenactment of Gandalf versus the Balrog in the cage on Thursday; and I just got this enormous, putrid, festering wound from a lovely lady armed with a bb gun not five minutes ago."

"'Enormous'? Hardly," Ellie snorted as she anointed a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide and started cleaning around the site of the damage. "It's just a flesh wound."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," John replied, wincing as the disinfectant started to bubble. "I'm fine. Hell, I've had mosquito bites worse than this."

"Yeah, well, mosquito bites cause infection and so do bullets if the wound isn't properly treated," Ellie declared as she gently wiped the worst of the blood away. "How long has it been since you've had a tetanus shot?"

"March, last year," he answered, trying not to look at her cleavage.

It wasn't easy, though, because it was _right there_, right in front of him, not more than six inches from his face, almost begging him to dive in or at least ogle to heart's content. He could smell her soap, her laundry detergent and even a hint of the sweat she'd worked up at the chopping block, and it was all he could do to will himself to sit there and not drool.

It was common knowledge among his oldest friends that John Casey had always been a fool for a great pair of tits.

Big or small, perky or full, it didn't really matter – if they were there and they were real, he was interested and his adoration of the female form had got him into major trouble on more than one occasion due to this predilection. Women had been his Achilles heel since he was a little boy, and one of the reasons why he joined the Marine Corps – not a lot of women were eager to throw themselves into the brutal physical and mental conditioning that came with that branch of the military and John was happy to be safe from temptation.

But here it was again, staring him in the face.

Literally.

He screwed his eyes shut tight to keep from looking.

"Jeez, John," Ellie remarked as she pulled out a chair, sat down and picked up the tweezers. "I haven't even started the painful part yet. Are you going to need a leather strap to bite down on when I go for the pellet?"

"No," he grumbled, opening one eye and scowling at her.

"Okay, but don't be afraid to ask," she said as she ran the tips of her fingers over the skin of his upper arm. "The pellet looks like it's burrowed under the skin – _here_ – and I'm going to need to move it towards the opening with my thumb before I can get at it. I need you to make a muscle and hold it steady while I do that so it doesn't go any deeper. Okay?"

"Roger that," John replied, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling the fist towards his shoulder.

"Great, perfect," Ellie murmured as she closed her hand around his biceps muscle and started wriggled her thumb against the pellet. "Wow! You know…you have…_incredible_… definition. I mean…your arms...are…bigger…than Devon's."

_God, you're so fucking whipped_, John scolded himself as he turned his head and grinned into his opposite shoulder, careful to make it look like a grimace so she wouldn't suspect the thrill it gave him to know that she had noticed him in that way.

"I'm going to dig the pellet out now," she advised as she picked up the tweezers. "Feel free to grunt if it hurts."

On a scale of one to ten of sharp, localized pain – with one being a stubbed pinky toe and ten being a root canal without novocaine – this rated a solid three. Nothing much to scream about.

"Excellent," Ellie purred as she pulled the pellet out from under his skin, placed it and the tweezers onto a napkin and pressed a piece of gauze over the wound. "You put pressure on this while I hunt up some antibiotic and a bandage."

"Okay," John muttered as he complied, his attention momentarily recalled to her breasts.

She'd shed the fleece vest and her shirt was made of a waffle-weave material that had been washed so many times as to render it almost transparent in the soft afternoon light.

John took a moment to remind himself of what happened the last time he'd fallen prey to the Almighty Rack as he swiftly shifted his gaze to her hands.

"So what's it gonna be, Johnny-Boy?" Ellie asked with a grin as she displayed his Band-Aid options. "Strawberry Shortcake or Care Bears?"

"Um, Johnson & Johnson?" he suggested.

"These are J&J," she replied, showing him the manufacturer label.

"I mean, the adult-person band-aids – you know, the _clear_ ones?" he explained.

"Sorry, big guy, you're out of luck," Ellie informed him. "This is all that Great Aunt Nora has in stock. Oh, don't pout. No one's going to see it under a long-sleeved shirt. Now, how do you like this one?"

"What's with the blue cartoon bear?" John asked.

"That's Grumpy," she answered as she stripped off the backing of the Band Aid, placed it over the gauze and secured the adhesives to the skin covering his biceps and triceps muscles. "He's my favorite."

"Fine, whatever," he said, giving into the inevitable. He was out of here as soon as she was done and the only interruption in his grand plan was going to be a stop at a drug store so he could pick up a box of less mortifying bandages. "Well, thanks for patching me up…"

"Least I could, considering I was the one who shot you in the first place," she replied. "I really am sorry – "

"Forget about it," John cut in as he got up from the table. "Now I guess I'll be on my way."

"Oh, you're not going anywhere," Ellie told him with a wry grin as she removed her gloves.

"And why is that?" John asked, staring down at her.

"You obviously haven't been listening to the weather report or you'd have known _that_ was going to happen," she said as she jerked her head in the direction of the window.

John growled as he saw at least twelve hours of his vacation being slowly swallowed up by the snow that was beginning to fall fast and thick.

It had probably started right after she brought him inside to get him cleaned up and he hadn't noticed because he'd been too distracted by her…um, curvier parts to notice. Now it was coming down in fierce skirls of huge, fluffy flakes that were going reduce visibility to zero within the next five to ten minutes. He doubted that he'd be able to make it out of town before the roads disappeared under a layer of the stuff.

"Looks like we're stuck with each other for the night," Ellie announced as she finished cleaning up. "Want some cocoa?"

"Yeah," John responded, folding his arms in front of his bare chest as he fought the wave of utter irritation that threatened to consume him. "With marshmallows. Lots of them."


	5. Starved

"First things first," Ellie said as she placed their mugs in the sink and went for her coat. "Let's go get your stuff out of the truck and haul in some wood for the fireplace – "

" – But – !"

"I don't want to hear one word from you about being injured," Ellie continued as she tugged on her hat and handed him his jacket. "In the words of one of Chuck's favorite movies, 'it's just a flesh wound', so no whining – "

" – _Huh?_ – "

"_You_…follow _me_. Now!" she told him as she pulled on her gloves and threw open the door. "And double-time it. This snow is only going to get worse."

John was halfway out the door before he realized that she'd done it again – ordered him around so effectively that he was following her commands before he knew what was happening to him.

It had to be the cocoa.

Yes, yes, that was it – devil woman had scrambled his brains with hot chocolate.

And marshmallows.

Lots of them.

_Damn it!__  
_  
He scowled and clenched his fists before he put on his jacket, zipped it up and did as he was told.

* * *

"Thanks," Ellie said as John held the door for her.

"Welcome," he replied, moving behind her to shut out the wind and snow before placing his duffel bag, sleep sack and cooler on the floor.

A bit of fancy footwork was called for as they turned around at the same time and nearly collided, but John solved that by stepping to the side to give Ellie some room.

"Nasty outside, isn't it?" John commented as he removed his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks on the back of the door.

Ellie made a noncommittal sound of agreement as she removed her hat and gloves and placed them on a smaller set of hooks hanging next to the door jamb.

"How much do you think we're gonna get?" John asked, fighting the rising dread that he was about to start babbling any minute now.

"Umm, I'd say about seven or eight inches, before all is said and done," Ellie murmured as she glanced out the window and ran a hand through her hair.

John bit down on his bottom lip as she turned away and walked into the kitchen.

"I hope you're not expecting dinner, because I am officially on strike," she informed him as she yanked open the freezer of the ancient 1953 Hotpoint refrigerator and pulled out a Swanson TV dinner.

"Wasn't planning on it," he answered as he watched her rip open the package.

"Good," she muttered as she reached for a fork and stabbed through the plastic covering a few times before tossing it into the early-model microwave.

John did his best to keep his face neutral as she viciously punched in the cooking time and smacked the "start" button. He concentrated instead on squaring away his things and building the fire back up.

Ellie folded her arms, leaned back against the counter, blew her bangs out of her face and looked at him across the expanse of the cabin. "Sorry if I'm not exactly hospitable at the moment."

"Hey, it's your getaway," he replied as he maneuvered the charred logs and added two more from the nearly empty bin next to the hearth. "I'm the one who's crashing."

She glanced down at the floor and toed a scuff mark. "Intellectually, know I shouldn't be taking my anger out on you, but I am so pissed off right now that I don't know what to do with myself."

"Do you wanna talk about it?" John asked while he replaced the fire screen.

"No," Ellie replied. "It's just some relationship…issues. Nothing for you to worry about."

John begged to differ. Any disruption in the Bartowski household was bound to affect the Intersect, and in a negative manner. John was a data man and he had charts that clearly indicated that Chuck's flashing was reliably incomplete and unclear after each fight that his sister had with her big blond himbo of a fiancé.

An NSA agent may have said something, but he wasn't Major Casey, NSA & BMIC (Badass Motherfucker in Charge), no ma'am, he was Big Quiet John from the Buy More.

And Big Quiet John's way of dealing with this situation would be to do the right thing and politely ignore the tension in the room.

"Where…um, where would you like me to bunk down?" he asked as he looked around.

"Living room would be best. I've slept on the couch before and the room gets nice and warm with the fire going," Ellie replied as she made a grab for her coat. "I'll go get more wood – "

"No, it's okay, I'll get it – "

Once again, the both of them ended up almost plastered against one another in an attempt to get out the door.

"Sorry!" he apologized, trying to get out of her way.

"My bad – it's not your fault that you're so, um, big…and so tall," she replied as she slipped on her coat while maneuvering around him.

John did his best to quash the bit of masculine smugness that flared up at her words as he followed her outside, but it was a lost cause as he watched her bend over and start plucking wedges of wood out of the wheelbarrow.

_God help him._

He had a massive sample of women from which to pull for the comparison and the verdict was in: she had the most incredible, perfect, delicious, mouthwatering backside he had ever seen.

Most females of predominantly Caucasian heritage tended to have what he privately referred to as "flat-ass syndrome" – their _gluteus maximi_ didn't extend very far from the line of their backs and there was very little grab onto at an opportune moment.

Not Eleanor Fay Bartowski.

She had hips that were built for grasping, thighs that were built for clasping, a mouth that was made for all manner of sin and enough flesh filling out the seat of her jeans to fill the palms and fingers of his rather massive hands. The animal in him wanted it, wanted it _all_.

"Hey, you! No daydreaming," she snapped as she turned around and shoved a bundle of wood into his arms. "We need to move if we're going to get all this inside before the deck's covered in snow."

"Sorry," he muttered as he accepted the pile and headed back into the cabin.

* * *

"Ugh!" Ellie exclaimed as she opened the microwave door and examined the contents of the plastic container. "Well, this is completely inedible."

"I've eaten worse," John commented as he glanced over at her from his place at the stove.

"What's that you're cooking?" Ellie asked as she stepped on the lever that opened the top of the wastebasket and deposited her scorched dinner in it.

"Beef stroganoff," he answered, stirring the pot. "I make up a mess of it whenever I go away – travels well and tastes better when it's warmed over."

"Hmmm…looks like you've got a lot of it," she remarked before opening the refrigerator.

John told himself that he was just curious as to what was in the fridge – he was definitely not staring at her butt again.

"Damn, that's a lotta beer!" he exclaimed as he spied an entire shelf devoted to various flavors of English ales.

"Aunt Nora's a bit of a connoisseur," Ellie explained as she reached in and pulled out a carton of organic skim milk. "Cereal it is…"

"Why?" John asked her. "I've got more than enough to share."

"You sure?" she asked, her eyes wide and tentative.

"I wouldn't offer if I wasn't," he said, offering her the spoon. "Here, try some."

She leaned forward, sniffing delicately before she opened her mouth and took a taste.

It was all John could do to keep his hand from shaking at the sight of her tongue.

"God, that is so good," she said, grabbing the spoon from him and going for more. "What's your secret?"

"Yeah, right," John snorted, retreating for the relatively safety of sarcasm. "I tell you, you tell Rachael Ray or Martha Stewart, one or both of those two domestic hussies makes a fortune off the recipe and then where does that leave me? Gypped out of a serious chuck of change, that's where. No, thank you."

Ellie scowled at him as she went for a third taste of the stroganoff. "Fine, be that way."

"Hey, hand over the spoon, lady," John told her. "Can't have you spoiling your dinner."

"I'm hungry enough to eat all of this _and _one of your legs, John," Ellie informed him as she deftly evaded his grasp and managed a fourth scoop before surrendering the spoon. "You better watch out or you're gonna wake up in the middle of the night with me gnawing on your shinbone."

"I'll keep that in mind," John replied, humoring her with a tight grin. "Now I'd be much obliged if you would be so kind as to hunt down some noodles and maybe a can or two of green beans."

"Canned green beans?" Ellie made a face of disgust. "Do _not _tell me that you are suggesting that we eat this glorious chow with canned vegetables."

"I didn't see any fresh ones in the fridge, Miss Bartowski," he said. "Unless your aunt Nora's hiding them in the beer bottles."

"Hardly," Ellie said. "She's probably got some frozen veggies stashed in her freezer unit. It's out in the back – I'll go get some."

John let out a deep breath as Ellie left the room.

He grabbed a large saucepan, filled it with water and put it on the stove to boil, all the while praying that he wouldn't do anything stupid like start drooling over her.

"Tell me how wonderful I am," Ellie demanded as she waltzed back into the room a few minutes later, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"That depends on what you're hiding behind your back," John replied cautiously.

She cocked her head and tapped her foot.

"Okay, I give – you're more wonderful than a shopping spree at Smith and Wesson."

"Any why is that? It's 'cause I've got the goodies," she sing-songed as she displayed a package of frozen green beans in one hand and a bag of egg noodles in the other.

"Excellent," John said, enjoying the easy banter between the two of them. "But you're not getting another taste of the stroganoff until dinner's ready, so you best apply yourself to the side-dishes."

"Yes, chef!" she answered, saluting sharply with the hand that was holding the green beans.

He returned her salute with a smirk and went back to tending the main course.

He could do this.

He could keep it light and friendly while he kept an eye on her.

She wasn't drinking, doing drugs, cutting herself or engaging in high-risk activities, so the most he'd have to do was make sure she ate right, got plenty of sleep and stayed away from that damn BB gun.

And all he had to do was protect his cover and keep from getting a hard-on whenever she was around.

_Piece of cake._

* * *

"John, why are men obsessed with breasts?"

"What?!"

Ellie took a swig of her beer as she handed him a napkin. "Here, you got a little sauce on your shirt."

"Thanks," he replied, wiping off the dollop of gravy. "Um, I'm not sure I heard you correctly."

"Breasts," Ellie repeated, using her fork to gesture to hers. "What's the attraction?"

John chewed thoughtfully before he replied. "Would you like your answer to be short and sweet or in-depth?"

"Short and sweet," she chose, loading up her fork with green beans and swirling it in the excess sauce on her plate.

"They're…nice," he mumbled, pointedly not looking at her chest.

"_'Nice'?_"

"Yeah, they're nice, real nice," he continued. "Soft…curved...you know."

"So are buttocks," she pointed out.

"Those are nice, too," he retorted quickly before he took a long, hasty pull from his bottle.

"Are you a breast-man or a butt-man?" Ellie asked as she peered at him over her plate. "Wait! No, let me guess – you're a leg-man, right?"

John looked her in the eye. "Getting a mite personal, aren't you, Miss Bartowski?"

"What else is there to do when you're trapped in a cabin in the middle of a snowstorm?" she responded.

John looked around, desperate for something to distract her from this line of questioning.

He'd heard this note in her voice before.

Every once in awhile, Ellie got a little naughty and started picking at people, interrogating whoever was closest to her. Sometimes it was Devon, sometimes it was Chuck and on rare occasions, Morgan bore the brunt of her grilling. No one got out alive without giving up some kind of sensitive information.

Too bad that President-Elect Obama was closing down Guantanamo Bay. He could do away entirely with water-boarding and other unsavory practices by sending Ellie down there with her disarming, gunmetal grey eyes; he would guarantee that there would be quick confessions.

Yes, it was all fun and games when John was listening to other people getting cross-examined by the lady of the house, but it was a whole other ballgame when he was the one in the hot seat.

He shifted slightly as he felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up.

She was using everything she had – her voice, her eyes, her charm, her deceptively wholesome beauty – and if he didn't think of something, fast, she would probably be prying a great deal of confidential information out of him, including, but not limited to, the way he'd felt about her the first time he'd ever walked into her house.

_Oh, fuck._

"Your aunt got any board games?" he asked, working hard to keep his voice from cracking.

* * *

"What color do you want to be?" Ellie asked as she set the box on the newly-cleaned kitchen table.

"No preference," John replied as he washed the last of the dishes.

"I'll be pink," she decided as she crossed to the fridge and got out two more beers. They'd had Fat Lip Amber Ale with their dinner, but Ellie was flipping the tops off of a new flavor: Black Hound Stout. "Do me a favor, will ya? Aunt Nora keeps a stash of Girl Scout Cookies behind the Corningware. Would you grab a box of the Peanut Butter Patties?"

"Will do," he said.

"I love these," Ellie declared as she tore open the box and the foil wrapping that surrounded the tray. "One of the good things about living with two boys is that they usually eat most of the things that I know are bad for me before I have a chance to give into temptation."

John almost choked on his beer as he watched her slip a cookie into her mouth and moan deep and low with delight.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice garbled with cookie crumbs.

"Yeah," he spluttered, holding up his beer. "This is, um, quite strong."

"Kinda tastes like coffee at the end, doesn't it?" she asked as she plucked another cookie from the tray. "God, where are my manners? Here, have one."

John smiled as she held out the tray to him. He loved Girl Scout Cookies. There was something so patriotic about them. "Many thanks."

"Yes! Now I know who you remind me of!" she exclaimed, setting down the tray and smacking both hands on the table.

Oh, no. Had she met him when he was on another mission?

"Who's that?" John asked slowly before he popped a cookie down the hatch.

"Captain Call!" she crowed, her eyes shining with triumph.

"Who?"

"Captain Woodrow F. Call from _Lonesome Dove_," Ellie replied. "Only one of the most awesome characters _ever_."

He masked his relief by pretending to examine the rules of the game. It was for ages four years old and up. Hopefully he'd be able to make a good showing.

"It's one of my favorite mini-series," she said as she plucked the bag of white marbles from the box and emptied them into the pit. "Now, are you ready for the most awesome game ever invented?"

"I think so," John replied, eyeing his game piece. It was orange and rotund and had a black lever attached to the backside.

"All right," Ellie said, putting down her beer bottle and rubbing her hands together. "The rules of Hungry, Hungry Hippos are simple – first one to get the most marbles in her mouth – "

"Or _his _mouth!" John interjected.

"Don't interrupt!" Ellie said as she placed her hand over the lever on her side. "As I was saying, first one to get the most marbles in their hippo's mouth wins. Are you ready?"

"I was born ready," John declared, his palm hovering above the black lever. "Are you?"

"Oh, it is _on_," Ellie vowed. "Ready…set…GO!"

* * *

"Mine! Mine! Mine!" Ellie chanted as she slammed her hand down over and over again on her lever. "You are dead meat, John Casey, because I am going to _win_!""

"I don't think so," John replied steadily, keeping up with her by making quick strategic darts whenever the marbles strayed within reach of his hippo as he nursed his beer. "In case you haven't noticed I've got some skills here, woman."

"Doesn't matter anymore because the game is over!" Ellie cried as the last marble disappeared into the gullet of her hippo. "And now, we count. One…two…three…"

"I've got ten," John said as he looked up from his marble well.

Ellie met his eyes and bit into her bottom lip. "Um…me, too."

They sat there, a little more than slightly intoxicated and staring at each other.

A few moments passed before they both started grinning like fools.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Ellie asked him, narrowing her eyes and widening her smile.

"I think so…" John drawled, arching his eyebrows.

"Rematch!" they shouted in unison.

* * *

"Hey, do you play chess?" Ellie asked as she sprawled out in the armchair in front of the fire.

"Sometimes," John said as he worked to adjust the logs with the poker. "I'm not very good at it, though."

"Well you're probably better than me because I – _hic!_ – suck," she announced in a slurred voice.

John turned around in time to see her upend her bottle and suction the last of her beer out of it.

_Mercy._

"Want me to deposit that dead soldier in the circular file for you?" he asked, risking a glance at his crotch to make sure he wouldn't embarrass himself when he stood up.

Ellie beamed at him as she held out the bottle. "Sure!"

He took it from her as he passed by, but she shot out a hand and grabbed his wrist to stop him.

"You know something, John Casey?" she asked, her head lolling on her neck.

"What's that?" he asked, ignoring the warm, soft something that was swelling in his chest as he gazed down at her.

"Of all the people who could have shown up here this afternoon, I'm kind of glad it was you," she confided quietly, patting his hand.

"Why's that?" he asked softly, fighting the urge to kiss her until they both passed out from oxygen deprivation.

"I don't feel like I have to – _hic!_ – keep it together around you," she replied, slurring her words with the effort to remain coherent. "You know? Like, we're cool and all. I could think of worse situations than being stuck in a snowstorm with you."

"This mean you ain't gonna shoot me again?" he asked solemnly.

"Affirmative," she replied, nodding her head in a slow, careful manner.

"Good," John said as he patted her hand with the one she wasn't holding and grinned down at her. "'Cause I don't like getting shot – stings like a bitch and there's this lady doctor who makes me wear pansy-ass cartoon Band-Aids."

"You're high-lair-ee-yus," Ellie told him as she released his wrist.

"I try," he called back to her as he deposited the bottle in the recycling bin next to the trash can. He opened the fridge and checked the available flavors of beer. "You ready to try the Monterey Bay Wheat?"

No answer.

He closed the fridge and sauntered back over to the living area.

Ellie was asleep.

John sighed as he bent down, picked her up and carried her to the bedroom where he placed her on the bed, slid off her moccasins and drew the covers up over her.

Fifteen months of surveillance of the Bartowski family had yielded a great deal of information about Eleanor Fay Bartowski, M.D.

She did the Electric Slide in the kitchen whenever she made her seven-layer nacho dip.

She sang in the shower and even though it was sacrilege to admit it, John secretly preferred her cover of "Sweet Caroline" to that of the original artist, Neil Diamond.

And even with her ability to bring aloe plants and creeping pothos back from the dead, she despaired of ever keeping a peace lily alive for more than two weeks.

Until tonight, he'd thought he knew everything he needed to know about her.

He was wrong.

He had no idea how infectious her smiles were or how much he liked putting one on her face and trying to keep it there.

He had no clue that talking with her would make him feel more like a human being and less like a ruthless government-sanctioned killing machine, or that he would actually welcome that feeling.

And nothing could have ever prepared him for how right she felt in his arms when he carried her to the bed. Or how difficult it was to put her down and walk away from her into the living room where his high quality Kelty Foraker sleeping bag was waiting for him.

He brushed his teeth, washed his face, changed into his sweats and banked the fire so that he wouldn't have to start from scratch in the morning, and then he zipped himself into his makeshift bed and stretched out with his full stomach and his wandering thoughts.

There were moments during this mission when John Casey could honestly say that he utterly detested Chuck Bartowski.

Typical of his fellow raging liberal idiot dumbasses, the kid had no idea what it took to keep someone safe, least of all a smart-mouthed, beanpole-skinny Nerd Herder who didn't have one lick of respect for nor an appreciation of the sacrifices of the men and women who give everything on a daily basis to ensure that each citizen has a shot at the American dream.

He drove General Beckman crazy with his uncanny ability to fuck up missions on a regular basis.

He ate all of the ice cream in the house on days when his sister came home jonesing for a scoop of Rocky Road or Butter Pecan.

He managed to program secret commands into John's conscience that made him willing to give up time out of his busy schedule of drinking, kicking ass and getting laid in favor of keeping an eye on the bossy, BB-gun-wielding woman passed out in the next room.

That goddamn kid was the reason John had ever had a chance to meet her in the first place and now there was this weird, warm ache propagating in his ribcage that was making him feel both sated and starved when he was with her and it _freaked him the fuck out_.

Come the morning, he knew what he had to do: he had to shovel himself (literally) out of this mess and get out of there before he did something stupid like fall for her.

_Good plan_, he told himself as he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.


	6. Caught

He should have known.

After more than a year of dealing with the brother, Major John Casey should have known that any plan involving a member of the Bartowski family was bound to fail spectacularly.

His brilliant plan to escape the nosy, boner-inducing clutches of the sister had turned into an extra-large triple supreme clusterfuck with all the trimmings and there wasn't one single, goddamn, sonuvabitchin' thing he could do about it.

* * *

The first clue had been the fact that he'd overslept.

He usually had a difficult time getting more than six hours of shut-eye in an uncertain situation, but he'd slept like one of the proverbial logs he'd lugged in yesterday.

The second clue was the reason he'd woken up: someone was in the shower, that someone was a woman, and her name was Eleanor.

Now was his chance – if he was quick, he could make a run for it!

He flung back the covers, sat up and discovered the third clue that his perfect plan was in the process of quickly getting flushed down the crapper.

_Well, hello morning wood – mind if I go cool you off in the three and a goddamn half feet of snow that fell last night? Jesus, there is no way I'm getting out of here until the afternoon – fuck-fuck-fuck-a-duck, Bartowski's gonna pay, 'cause I'm gonna put my foot in his ass for ruinin' my vay-cay!_

It was time for a new plan so John made the executive decision to bed back down in his sleeping bag for awhile longer and think one up.

Big mistake.

All he could think about was Ellie.

_In the shower._

_Naked._

_With lots and lots of wet, slippery, soap bubbles dripping from her absolutely perfect breasts down her silky-smooth stomach and sliding down her long-long legs…_

After a few minutes of lying there, wide awake, alternating between silently cursing his erection and desperately willing it to go away, John heard the water cut out.

_Now it'll be about ten to fifteen minutes until she's fully dressed and groomed. _

He knew because he'd calculated it – he needed to make sure that he didn't accidentally activate the feed on the camera located in her room while she put on her clothing.

_Right, Johnny-Boy._

_Keep telling yourself that. _

_Like your hand didn't "inadvertently" change the channel while you were reaching out to adjust the Gipper's portrait – the same hand which is currently stroking your cock while you indulge in some very inappropriate fantasies involving the lady in question…?_

_Oh, fuck it! Like it's gonna get any easier from here on out..._

John located his watch, set the timer and then gave himself over to the fantasy of getting up, stripping off his clothes, yanking open the shower door, hauling Ellie up into his arms and screwing her blind against the shower wall until they were both weak-kneed and waterlogged, gasping for their next breath.

_Oh yeah…wrap your legs around my waist, baby…yeah, just like that…gonna tease you just a little bit…make you beg before I slide in…nice…and…slow…yeah, you like that?... you like it when I'm inside of you, fillin' you up, makin' you moan?...tell me…tell me all about it, baby…God, so close…so fucking close…_

"Hey, John, bathroom'll be free in a minute!" Ellie called as she stuck her towel-turbaned head out the door and then shut it again.

He had never moved faster in his life than he did in that moment, flipping over onto his stomach and landing on a part of himself that was currently using more blood than his brain.

_Ouch! Mother-puss-bucket! _

His eyes crossed as he bit back a string of curse words and he braced against the waves of blinding pain that shot through his groin.

"You okay?" Ellie asked, toweling her hair as she stuck her head out again.

"Fine," he grunted, clenching his teeth. "Just not much of a morning person."

He heard her make a noncommittal sound and close the door again and let out the breath he'd been holding.

_Oh, man, I deserved that._

* * *

He'd almost slipped back into unconsciousness when he felt something softly nudge one of his toes.

"Hey," Ellie said from somewhere above his feet. "I'm still on strike, but I can make an exception for breakfast. Bacon and eggs okay?"

He cracked an eye open. He himself was a morning person, but now that Big Quiet John wasn't, he made sure to grunt irritably in her general direction.

"Great," he muttered. "Can't wait."

"Bathroom's free," she told him as she adjusted the towel wrapped around her hair. "We'll get some chow in our tummies, then get to work on digging ourselves out, 'kay?"

John grunted again, indicating his compliance with the orders before flinging an arm over his eyes and rolling away from her.

"Don't even think about going back to sleep," she warned him. "I have steel-toed hiking boots and I'm not afraid to use them. Up and at 'em, Casey!"

Sweet Jesus! He thought he'd finally managed to relax, but there he went again - taking less than five seconds to go from completely soft to hard enough to pound nails – _What the fuck?!_

John had to clench the fist attached to the arm that was blocking out the light and bite down on his lip – _hard _– to keep from betraying the thrill that shot through him as she shut the door.

It wasn't the threat of pain that got him all hot and bothered, no sir, it was the tone she used. Stern, steely and in control, it made mincemeat of his resolve. Next thing you know, he'd be begging her to order him around and getting off on it like no one's business.  
_  
__That does it – I'm getting' myself a psych eval at the next opportunity! _

* * *

"How do you like your bacon?" Ellie asked.

"Extra crispy, please," John replied as he set the table.

"Few more minutes," she informed him with a marked lack of cheer.

John frowned.

She was a big-time morning person of the "bounce-out-of-bed-rise-and-shine" variety and he didn't think she'd consumed enough alcohol last night to adversely affect her mood.

Seeing her like this made him feel…well, it made him feel, for starters. That, in and of itself, was disturbing. He wasn't supposed to care about people when he was on the job.  
_  
__But I'm not on the job right now. I'm on vacation_, he reminded himself as he placed a folded napkin under each fork. _No, not vacation; more like "shore leave." Even though this is Big-Quiet-John-from-the-Buy-More's time off, he's still on Uncle Sam's payroll and he is not allowed moon after the unavailable sister of his mark._

She dished up the bacon and the scrambled eggs, and they sat down across the table from each other and dug in silently. They would both need their strength if they were going to have a prayer of being able to dig themselves out of the snow drifts that surrounded their cars and the massive pile of compacted snow that plugged the driveway from accessing the recently plowed road.

"You sleep okay last night?" Ellie asked as she nibbled on a bit of bacon.

"Yup."

_Except, of course, for that part where you almost caught me spankin' it to the memory of your sex moans._

"Good," she said as she mixed cream and sugar into her coffee cup. "I was a little cold myself. Forgot how chilly it gets in there without a space heater. Guess I should've pulled a sleeping bag up next to you last night and made you share the fire, eh?"

John bit the inside of his lip as he fought the image of what she'd look like stretched out on his sleeping bag, wearing nothing but firelight, holding out her arms to him.

Ellie raised her eyes to meet his as he took a brief sip of his coffee. "Good?"

"Oh yeah," he answered quickly.

It was better than good. It smooth, strong and scalding hot and abso-fuckin'-lutely perfect, and he hated himself for loving the way she watched him to see if it was to his liking.

"So," he began, setting his cup down and digging into his eggs. "How many shovels we got to work with?"

"Just the one," Ellie replied, motioning to the flimsy tool that she'd fetched from the back room while he had showered.

John eyed it doubtfully. "We'll be stuck here until spring if we use that thing."

Ellie propped her elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand. "You may have a point there."

"Your aunt keep anything like a snowblower in her shed out back?" John asked, taking another sip of coffee.

"I don't know," she replied. "But I wouldn't get my hopes up – she's never here in the winter, so she wouldn't have a reason to, would she?"

"I'll take a look after we finish up here," he offered. "Who, knows, we might just get lucky?"

"Sounds like a plan," Ellie said as she clinked the lip of her coffee mug gently against his.

Their eyes caught for a moment and she smiled at him, a genuine smile, like the ones she wore when she opened her door to him on Sunday evenings for dinner.

He felt his heart rate accelerate and swallowed hard.

And promptly started coughing.

"Down the wrong pipe?" she speculated as she waited to see if he needed assistance.

He nodded, unable to squeeze out a word between hacking fits.

"You have to be more careful, John," she admonished as she moved over to him and began pounding him on the back. "I'm going to need you to help dig us out of this mess."

* * *

"So, um, where is the shed?" John asked as he forced open the screen door.

Ellie peered around his shoulder towards the road as she put on her hat. "Um, that way, I think…wow, it's cold out here!"

John kicked at the thick white powder with the toe of his boot. "Looks like we got a little of the lake effect last night, made the drifts worse. Gimme the shovel."

Ellie handed it to him and he cleared the steps and began making a path. It was pretty damn hopeless, though, because the shovel barely made a dent in the drifts. He planted it next to the stairs and started wading towards his SUV.

"Wait a minute!" she objected, carefully descending the stairs after him. "The shed is _that _way!"

"Yeah," he agreed, "but my car is _this _way, and it has an extra shovel in it."

Her eyebrows arched as she put her lips together and whistled. "You come prepared? I'm impressed."  
_  
__Do not think about the twelve-pack of condoms under the seat!_

_Do not think about the twelve-pack of condoms under the seat!_

_Fuck…too late._

"Might wanna rethink that assessment, Miss Bartowski," he called back. "I believe in equal rights, and that includes women doing their share of the shoveling."

"Hey," she teased as she picked her way in the footsteps he'd made. "I'm a Southern California girl – we don't _do _snow."

"You don't say?" John mused as he continued to carve his way to his vehicle.

"I do say," she retorted sassily as she followed close behind him.

He didn't say another word, just gave her a gentle nudge with his hip and she went sprawling into a nearby snow bank.

"You jerk!" she squawked as she sat up and glared at him.

"What?" he asked innocently as he turned to look at her. "Hey, what are you doing down there?"

"You pushed me!" she shouted, her hands scrambling to form a makeshift snowball.

He evaded it easily. "Don't blame me! You're the one who doesn't know how to keep her balance in the snow."

She scrubbed at her face with her mittened hands and sighed. "Okay, fine, I'll do my part of the shoveling. Just…get me out of this stuff, okay?"

John bent down and offered her his hand and she took it.

Her eyes narrowed and he realized the magnitude of the mistake he'd made.

"Whoa!" he hollered as she tugged him off-balance and he fell face-forward into the snow.

Well, more like face-forward onto _her_.

"Oof!"

"Ahhh!"

"Sorry!"

"You should be!"

"Why?"

"You started it!"

"And you just had to finish it, didn't you?!"

"Of course I did," she snapped. "You only got what you deserved!"

"And what would that be, hmmm?" he demanded.

"Why, that would be retribution, of course," she purred as she slowly slid a hand beneath his jacket into the waistband of his jeans.

"Huh?" John's eyebrows snapped together as he fought through a fog of raging hormones to figure out what she was saying.

And then his butt got a whole lot colder.

"Did you just put snow down the back of my pants, young lady?" he asked her through chattering teeth.

"Why, yes, I did," she responded cheekily.

"Oh, that was uncalled for," he warned. "I may have to get even."

"Really?" she challenged. "And how do you propose to do that?"

"I have my methods," he vowed.

"You'd have to catch me first," she taunted.

"Already did," he stated.

"Oh, I'm _soooo _scared," she retorted.

He tried to glower down at her, but she just smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling like dark diamonds.

They stared at each other, their faces centimeters apart, their mouths making tiny white puffs of moisture in the frigid air as they struggled to catch their breath.

_If this were a romantic comedy, this would be the moment we'd kiss_, he thought hazily as he stared down at her.

Her smile got just a tiny bit wider and it reminded him of Chuck's goofy grin.

Chuck.

His mark.

He was lying on top of the very engaged sister of his mark.

Scratch that – he was not lying on top of the sister of his mark; Big Quiet John from the Buy More was lying on top of the sister of his mark.

And while Major Casey would have kissed her long, hot and hard without a second thought, Big Quiet John from the Buy More would never act that way in a million years.

He quickly levered himself up off of her and gave her his hand again. "Come on, we've got a lot of snow to clear before nightfall."

Ellie took it, hauled herself to her feet and looked at him thoughtfully as she brushed excess snow off of her clothes.

"You okay?" he inquired. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

She tested her arms and legs. "No, I'm good."

"Good," he repeated. "We'd better get moving."

"John…"

He looked down to where she'd placed a hand on his shoulder.

She brushed a bit of snow from the sleeve of his jacket. "How's your arm?"

"It's good," he replied.

"Good," she echoed, her hand stilling at his elbow.

Their eyes caught yet again and she took a deep breath. He thought she looked like she might want to say something to him, but she didn't. She just smiled, patted his arm once and started walking back towards the house.

_Damn…that was close_, he cautioned himself as he shook a little more snow off of his jacket. _Too close. Can't afford anymore slip-ups like that or I can kiss my cover good-bye._

He looked around at the expanse of the deeply frosted driveway and smiled grimly.

Physical training had always been a good way to clear his head.

_Better get to work_, he told himself as he pried open the back of his SUV and retrieved his shovel. _This snow ain't gonna clear itself._

"I'm ready," Ellie said, presenting herself, shovel in hand.

"Good," he said, giving her his best "I'm-a-flaming-liberal-tax-'n-spend-chump" grin. "Let's get to work."


	7. Stunned

"Oh, God, I can't move."

"Me neither."

"Howsabout we just lie here for a few days until we can breathe again?" he asked.

"Good plan," she agreed.

John rolled over onto his side and propped his head in his hand. "May I express how impressed I am with your stamina, ma'am?"

"Not so bad yourself, sir," Ellie replied as she grinned at him and stretched her arms over her head.

They'd done it for half of the morning and the entire afternoon, taking a truncated noontime respite to ingest some calories and the required bathroom breaks before getting right back to business. They finished just around sundown and promptly collapsed: sweaty, exhausted and very, very pleased with their efforts.

The deck, the stairs, the long driveway and John's SUV were free and clear of snow and now both of them were stretched out in front of the fire, wiggling their toes as the flames restored feeling to their frozen feet.

"Can I tell you something?" Ellie asked him as she rolled onto her side and mirrored his pose.

"Sure," John said, mesmerized by the play of firelight over her features.

She bit her lip as she traced a pattern on the scratchy carpet. "I was scared of you when I first met you."

John's brow furrowed. "Scared? Of me?"

"Yeah," Ellie admitted. "See, you're not exactly the type that follows Chuck home to dinner. The stray dinner guest is usually a boy his own age with stunted social skills and severe grooming issues, not some big, handsome grown man who arrives with mini-quiches in hand. For a moment there, I thought you were some kind of undercover FBI agent who was investigating Chuck because he hacked the wrong computer."

John mustered up a chuckle to hide his surprise.

He'd pegged her as being pretty damn sharp, but her powers of deduction were downright alarming.

And impressive.

It turned him on almost as much as the way she was looking at him, all teasing smile and shimmering eyes.

"Not quite accurate, Miss Bartowski, but I give you credit for having a healthy imagination," he retorted with a snort. "What you see is what you get."

He could have sworn she blushed at that, but he couldn't be sure that it wasn't the heat from the fire.

"So…" she began, looking around. "Got anymore of that stroganoff?"

"Nope. We had the last of it at lunch today," he answered.

She pouted. "Well…damn. I was hoping maybe there was some more in your car."

He rolled his eyes. "I knew there was a reason you were so insistent on cleaning it off yourself."

"No," she protested, "I swear to God, I really did feel bad about shooting you and I didn't want you re-injuring your arm!"

"If you say so," he conceded, rolling onto his stomach. "So, what am I cooking for dinner?"

"You?"

"Yeah. You're on strike, so I'm on KP duty again. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Well, we could have eggs and bacon again," she ventured as she rolled onto her back.

The motion rucked up her shirt and caused the waistband of her jeans to gape away from the curve of her hipbone, exposing a sliver of tanned stomach at the edge of the waistband of her daffodil yellow underwear. He wondered what it would feel like to reach out and trace that bit of skin with the tips of his fingers, see if it felt as soft and smooth as it looked.

He grunted with annoyance as he re-adjusted his position on the floor.  
_  
__Can a man die from a non-stop 24-hour erection?_

She turned her head to look at him. "My thoughts exactly."

"Wha–huh?!"

"I'm not in the mood for B&E, either," she clarified. "How do you feel about a nice, thick, juicy steak?"

John's stomach executed a rumble worthy of Morgan at his most ravenous and he felt his face start to flood with blood. He was mostly Irish and while he'd escaped the curse of the freckle stampede, his skin was pale enough to show when he was even thinking about blushing.

"I take that is a 'yes'?" she asked with a straight face.

"Uh, yeah, sorry about that," John said with a touch of chagrin.

"Don't be embarrassed," she admonished him. "It's a perfectly natural biological function."

"Point taken," John said. "Where's Aunt Nora keep the meat?"

"She's a vegetarian," Ellie informed him.

John's face fell. "Please, please tell me that we aren't going to be eating anything like that soy-based smeat that your boyfriend keeps asking for at dinner?"

"Hell, no," Ellie promised. "Here's what I think we should do: shower – "

_Together?_ his inner pervert interjected.

_Shut. Up!_ his conscience rebuked.

" – Get dressed and go down to Jasper's for a proper meal," she finished.

"I'm game," he said, standing up slowly.

"Great!" she said, "Now, help me up!"

"You gonna try to topple me again?" he asked, folding his arms.

"Absolutely not," she swore, hand over heart. "I just need some help – been shoveling snow all day – my muscles aren't used to this kind of a workout."

He regarded her for a few moments, his eyes narrowed and his mouth a thin, grim line.

"Okay, lady," he said, extending his hand to her.

She took it and their mutual tugging ended up with her rising to her feet much faster than she anticipated: she landed flat against his chest, her arms wrapped around him as she tried to steady herself.

He added his arms for good measure and tried not to think about how good her hair smelled and the fact that if she moved an inch to her right, she'd discover another "perfectly natural biological function" that he'd rather she not be aware of.

"Geez, I keep doing that," she observed absently as she stepped back. "Odd. Oh, by the way, I'm paying for dinner tonight, so I call first shower."

"No arguments here," he said, putting his hands up.

John sank down into the chair as Ellie dashed off to the bedroom to get clothing for the evening.

_Wonder if there's time for a quickie…?_ he mused, his hand hovering above the fly of his zipper.

_Better not chance it,_ he decided as Ellie burst out the bedroom, clothes in hand, and bustled into the bathroom. _Woman has a downright uncanny sense of timing._

* * *

John sat back from the table and whistled low. "Wow…"

He'd ordered the "Pit Porterhouse", and the massive slab of grilled meat he'd received almost overflowed the plate, requiring that his two side dishes (Cajun rice and twice-baked potato) be served separately.

"Not enough meat for you, He-Man, Master of the Snow Shovel?" Ellie commented as she sliced a piece from her smaller steak.

"No, I'm just thinking I should've ordered a doggie bag to go with this…thing," he muttered as he applied knife and fork.

"Let me know if you need some help," she offered, dusting her steak with pepper as she gazed at his side dishes. "That potato looks divine!"

He looked at her plate where her much smaller steak was crowded by two servings of steamed vegetables. "You wanna trade me some of those for half the spud?"

"No, I'm good," she said with a grimace. "Have to make sure I don't gain too much weight this weekend – I have a wedding gown to fit into."

"Yeah, in six months," he pointed out as he took a bite of the steak.

"It'll be here before I know it," she muttered, pushing a hank of hair behind her ear. "And I know myself – one taste and I'm a goner."

"Hey, we just spent six hour shoveling snow by hand – that's approximately 2,400 calories we each burned just doing that," John informed her as he moved his knife and fork to his twice-baked potato and sawed it in half. "I think you can afford some carbs."

"Well…okay, just don't tell Devon," she said, offering her plate him.

"Why not?" John pressed as he slid her part of the potato onto her plate next to the steak.

"Thanks, and don't forget to take some of the veggies," she cautioned him before addressing his question. "Devon's mom put us both on a photo-ready diet."

John's hands stilled in the action of cutting his steak. "She did _what_?"

"It's so we can look good for the pictures and video," she explained as she took a nibble of the potato. "Ohhh, that's good! I haven't had sugar or butter or cheese in the last week and I'm fiending like a junkie for a fix."

"That's it," John said, putting down his utensils and motioning for the server.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Ellie asked, a little bewildered.

"You," he corrected, "are having dessert. Now they don't have pecan pie, so you're gonna have to choose among – let's see – vanilla bread pudding, gingersnap pumpkin cheesecake, apple pie, peach or boysenberry cobbler, graham cream pie or molten chocolate cake with – _oh, yeah_ – warm raspberry sauce."

"Is everything okay, sir?" the server asked.

"Absolutely. I would like a take-home box," John replied, motioning to Ellie. "And the lady would like to place her dessert order now so we don't have to wait."

Ellie tilted the right side of her face towards him and narrowed her eyes. "On one condition."

"Yes?" he asked.

"You split it with me," she challenged.

John nodded curtly. "Done."

Ellie turned to the server. "The molten cake with the raspberry sauce, please."

"Excellent selection," the server said, making a notation on her pad. "I'll be sure to bring them when you're finished with your entrée."

"Thanks," John said, and turned to Ellie. "And thank you, too."

"For what?"

"Ordering my favorite."

"My pleasure," she said, giving him a shy smile.

He felt his ribcage constrict and he found himself desperately wishing that this was a real date, not some "thank-you-for-shoveling-my-ass-outta-the-blizzard-of-'08" meal that she was going to attempt to pay for. ("Attempt" because he was 1) a gentleman, 2) currently flush with cash thanks to a cushy all-expenses-paid observe-and-kick-ass job watching her little brother, and 3) not going to take "no" for an answer.)

It was so natural, so right, the two of them like this, sharing space, accidentally kicking each other as they adjusted their legs, telling funny stories from their past.

_If only it could last…_

* * *

"So," she began as dessert arrived. "Where are you off to tonight?"

"Not sure," John answered as he offered her the cut into the cake. "I've got about a day and a half left before I'm back on the clock. Do you think it's worth it to make a run for the beach?"

"If you leave right after dinner, you could probably make it to the coast by ten," Ellie replied with a shrug as she checked her watch. "Check into one of the cleaner roach motels and who knows? Probably a party already in full swing, if it's what you want."

John looked down at the teal green cross-hatched tablecloth and scowled. That was exactly what he'd been telling himself that he wanted, but now that it was feasible, he found himself rebelling against the idea of leaving her.

"Sick of me already, Doc?" he quipped in an attempt to deflect his discomfort.

"Not at all," she replied, and there was both surprise and wonder in her voice. "You're a pretty cool guy, John Casey."

"Well, thank you, ma'am," he said, saluting her with his glass of water. "Ain't so bad, yourself."

"You know, you've exerted yourself a lot physically, today," she said as she contemplated the ravaged state of the dessert plate.

"Uh-huh."

"And you'd probably fall asleep at the wheel," she continued.

"Quite possibly," he agreed.

"Well, that settles it then," Ellie declared as she scooped up a little more of the dessert. "You are staying and we are going to Murray's."

"What's Murray's?"

"You'll see!" she promised with a gleam in her eye.

* * *

Murray's, it turned out, was a bar. It was karaoke night and it was slowly filling up, with everyone rocking out as a local with a massive beer belly and a distinct snowburn howled out ACDC's "You Shook Me All Night Long".

"Do I have to sing?" John hollered into Ellie's ear as they searched for a table.

"Only if you want to," Ellie shouted back.

"I don't think I want to," he replied before snagging a table in the back for the two of them.

"Yeah, me, too!" she agreed as she sank down into her seat and took off her jacket.

* * *

"God, that is so undignified," Ellie whispered into John's ear as they watched an old couple perform "Paradise By the Dashboard Light", with a third person calling the baseball plays a la Phil Rizzuto while Mom and Pops swapped swit.

"Looks like they're having fun, though," John commented as he refilled their empty glasses with more beer from the pitcher they'd bought.

Ellie's expression shifted subtly as she leaned forward onto the graffit-decorated table. "Yeah...it does."

* * *

"Hey, she's pretty good," John remarked, halfway through his second beer as they watched a young woman belting out Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline". "Not as good as you, though."

"How do you know?" Ellie asked, her words a little slurred.

John bit his lip. He'd slipped again.

_Damnit! Think fast!_

"Morgan told you, didn't he?" she demanded, peering at him over the rim of her beer glass. "Did you know he used to 'pretend' to walk in on me?"

"Oh no," John lied, recalling a few incidents in the first months of his surveillance.

"Oh, _yeah_. That skeevy little punk would keep Chuck up late playing video games, crash on his carpet and then crash into the bathroom in the morning while I was taking a shower and freak me the hell out!" She hoisted her beer glass up. "Thank God for Anna Wu! Bomp-bomp-bomp!"

* * *

"You know, I think I wanna give it a try," Ellie declared as she tipped the last of the beer into John's glass. "I mean, it's not as if anyone knows me here."

"True," John said as he glanced at the current performer – a young ski bum who was butchering The Doors' version of "Gloria". "And they're probably all too hammered to hold their cellphones steady for anyone to recognize you on Youtube tomorrow."

"You make a very good point," Ellie concurred before she finished off her beer.

"So, you know what you wanna sing?" he asked.

"_Nyet_," she answered with a shake of her head. "Gotta go get the book – "

"Whoa!" John cautioned her as she almost tipped off her chair. "_I'll_ get it."

"You're the best!" she called after him as he went in search of the book of instrumental tunes.

* * *

"To hell with being dignified, I want something _really _showstopping," Ellie said, savoring her fourth beer as she flipped through the pages of the book of available tunes. "Something that I'll totally regret tomorrow when you post the link on your Facebook page."

"Can't go wrong with Pat Benatar," John said, tapping the page she was perusing.

"Pat's great," Ellie agreed before taking another sip of her beer and flipping through the book, "but I want something big, a little scary."

"Joan Jett?"

"Too much machismo."

"Stevie Nicks?"

"Too many crystal visions."

"Tina Turner?"

"Perfect!" Ellie exclaimed, clapping her right hand against her beer glass. "And you'll be my Ike!"

"What?! No! Ike Turner was a wife-beating sonuvabitch!" John protested. "No chance in hell, sister!"

Ellie put down her beer, took his face in both of her hands and spoke very deliberately, as only the truly intoxicated can. "I know…that _you_…would never, ever, ever-ever-ever-_ever_…raise your hand…to a woman. Not even if she pulled you off-balance into a snowbank. But I wanna do 'Proud Mary' and I _need _backup. Will _you _be my backup, John Casey?"

He looked into her eyes, felt her soft, warm hands against his jaw, smelled the scent of that delicious shampoo mixed in with her soap and her deodorant and her laundry detergent and her pheromones. The animal rose up in him again, clawing at his control, demanding to be fed.

Right now, it wanted her mouth…her sweet, luscious, juicy, lip-glossed mouth. It was just inches from his and he could smell the hops on her breath…_Jesus_, he could almost taste her.

It was like falling into the snow all over again, this moment caught in time, when everything was right and anything was possible.

Take the wrong step, say the wrong thing, and it would shatter.

_Time to face the truth, Casey: this woman has you wrapped around her little finger and the more you resist, the more it'll persist. Time to stop fighting and just give into it._

He looked her dead in the eye and said, "It would be my honor to be your back-up, Eleanor Bartowski."

"God, I could kiss you!" she exclaimed as she squealed with delight.

"Well, if you must – "

And then she did it, she kissed him – _on the lips!_

It was swift, startling, stolen in a split second, more of a sudden mashing together of their mouths than any kind of intentional caress, but it was a real, honest-to-God, official kiss.

Ellie pulled back and John looked at her, completely stunned.

She didn't say a word. She just smiled at him – that warm, welcoming, wondrous smile that made his guts clench and his heart wrench. He felt himself drowning in her eyes and, for once, didn't fight it.

Before he could say a word, she was gone; quick as a wink, she let go of his face, popped out of her seat and headed for the DJ booth to make her request.

_She's drunk_, he told himself. _And you know that she gets flirty when she's drunk. You'd have to be a rat bastard to take advantage of her, and you are not a rat bastard. You are an officer and a gentleman. Act like one for chrissakes, Major!_

"We're fourth after the next guy," Ellie announced as she bounded back and beat her palms giddily against the surface of the table.

"Great," he said, trying his best to summon up a little enthusiasm.

Ellie seemed not to notice, hopping up into her chair and picking up her glass as a middle-aged good ol' boy stepped up to sing Journey's "Don't Stop Believing".

"Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world," she crooned along, grinning at John. "She took the midnight train going anywhere…"

"Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit" he joined in, raising his glass to Ellie. "He took the midnight train going anywhere…"

"A singer in a smoky room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume," they sang together, caught up in the moment. "For a smile, they can share the night, it goes on and on and on…"

_Yep_, he thought as the bar erupted in the chorus. _I'm fucked_.


	8. Relieved

"You two were amazing!" the cocktail waitress gushed as she set two glasses of ice water on their table.

"Thanks, but it was all her," John replied, gesturing to his singing partner whose head was resting against his shoulder, her eyelids fluttering at half-mast.

"Mercy buckets, we're here all night!" Ellie crowed, raising her hand in a careless gesture of thanks before turning her face into John's neck.

"You're not going to let her drive, are you?" the waitress asked as she cleared away their pitcher of beer.

"Negatory," John answered as he put a careful arm around Ellie and readjusted her so that she could breathe more easily. "This one's riding shotgun all the way home."

"But it won't be a shotgun wedding," Ellie murmured as the waitress melted back into the crowd.

"What's that?" he asked, bending his head.

"My butt, it's been Depo-Provera-vised," she informed him solemnly as she pointed to her backside. "I'm reproductively null and void, so no little Dev-Ellie-ettes – at least not for another two months!"

"Good for you," he encouraged, petting her hair briefly in what he hoped was an innocent fashion as he tried to ignore as his inner pervert.

It wasn't easy, though, because it was going to town conjuring up all manner of ways that he could "fill her void" once they got back to the cabin, some of them including going bareback for the first time in quite a few years.

_Sweet Jesus._

All he could feel was the soft swells of her breasts as they pressed into his chest, all he could think about was whether or not her nipples matched the deep rose of her lips, and all he could do was sit there and play his part: Big Quiet John, Buy Moron at Your Service.

John heaved a sigh as he reached for his ice water and took a long, deep swallow before briefly contemplating pouring the remainder into his crotch to cool himself off.

He needed to get sober, _fast_. The longer they stayed there, the more he hoped that Ellie would continue to smear herself all over him, and the more he feared that he would do something monumentally idiotic like try to kiss her.

"Hey, Cinderella," he murmured as he put his glass back down on the table, "It's about time for this coach to turn back into a pumpkin. What say we start thinking about heading on out?"

"Affirmative," she agreed with a lazy smile. "I'm ready and rarin' to go!"

"Well, I'm gonna go hit the head first, then we're outta here," he told her as he eased himself out of her grasp.

"Don't hit it too hard," she advised him as she shifted her elbows to the table and reached for her water. "It might hit back."

"I'll remember that," he replied with a chuckle.

* * *

"Oooh, my head is swimming!" Ellie announced as she flung open the door of the SUV and stumbled out towards the lake.

"Whoa there, young lady!" he cautioned as he rounded the front of the car and caught up with her. "Let's make sure that's the rest of you doesn't follow suit!"

"How many beers did I have?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his waist and snuggling into him. "Two? Four?"

"Six," he corrected, hesitantly patting her back. He had no idea she could pack away the hops like that.

"Eight!" she cheered loudly as she threw her arms over her head and fell backwards. "Show us how you masturb–!"

"Shhh!" he admonished as he caught her, pulled her upright and pressed his palm to her mouth to silence her. "People are trying to sleep and noise carries a long way across water."

Their eyes met and held, and he felt his heart rate speed up as she smiled against his palm and leisurely winked at him.

John was not drunk, he was just pleasantly buzzed.

He knew well enough to let her go before he did something stupid like replace his hand with his mouth, but that part of his brain was currently being overruled by the part that was reminding him that he'd never done it in a snow bank before.

_Duty, dickhead! Remember your goddamn duty!_

He took his hand from her mouth. "Think you can you make it up the stairs?"

She nodded dreamily as she slid her hands up his chest and linked them behind his neck. "You know something? Your eyes are so blue…like _Windex_."

_Jesus H. Christ._

The woman was comparing his eyes to her favorite cleaning product and playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

There was no if's, and's or but's about it: she was flirting with him.

Eleanor Faye Bartowksi was _flirting_ with him.

_Lord have mercy._

"And you're so handsome.." she murmured, tilting her head back as she gazed at him.

_I will not give in. I will not give in. I am a United States Marine. I can control myself, goddamnit!_ he mentally chanted as he pushed the button on the key fob that locked the SUV and activated the alarm.

"Are you gay?" she asked, languorously pressing herself against him as he steered her towards the house.

"_What?!_"

"Shhh – remember, they're sleeping!" she advised, jerking her head towards the lake. "I asked, are you gay?"

"No, I'm not," he answered.

"You're the only one of Chuck's friends who's never hit on me, and you spend a lot of time with him. You don't have a girlfriend, not that I can tell, and let me tell you, I would _know_ if you did. It's a reasonable question," she continued, oblivious to his answer.

"I'm not gay," he replied evenly. "And even if I were, Chuck wouldn't be my type."

"Why not? He's a good guy!" Ellie protested.

"I prefer to have relationships with adults, and he's got a lot of growing up to do," John replied as he led her down the shoveled path to the staircase.

"That he does," she agreed as she leaned into him and sighed. "I wish you were gay."

"Why?" John asked her as he put an arm around her waist and helped her totter up the stairs.

"Because then I wouldn't feel so guilty."

"About what?"

She nuzzled the sleeve of his coat. "About the fact that I have a huge crush on you."

John stopped in his tracks.

"You do?" he asked, his voice an octave higher than normal.

"Uh-huh," she said, giggling softly as she groped for the railing. "Can't help myself. You're so tall and dark and _handsome_…what woman wouldn't wanna take a ride?"

"Um…"

It was pretty difficult to reply coherently, given that he was still attempting to locate his tongue; he was pretty sure he'd swallowed it a moment ago.

Ellie swung a leg around him, slid her hands into his pockets and gripped the fabric as she pulled him closer. "How about you?"

Her face was illuminated by the silver light of a quarter moon reflecting off of the snow, soft, pale, waiting, anticipating.

It was all he could do to remember to breathe.

"I…"

She tilted her face up closer to his, her lips so close that he could feel the warmth of her breath before it converted into miniature clouds of frost crystals. "Yes?"

This had to be a dream, it just had to be, because good, sweet, classy women like her didn't come on to him unless they were double agents and nothing in her file hinted at any kind of espionage in her background.

Well, that wasn't exactly true: there was that incident in her senior undergrad year when she participated in a group attempt to rappel down the side of the library _en masse_ during finals week. Ellie had been one of the few to complete the exercise before campus security had shut down the operation, but that didn't automatically mean she was really an impostor named Kitty Purryevna sent by the latest incarnation of the KGB to take him out.

_It has to be some kind of trick_, John decided as he fought his beer buzz and baser instincts, _but_ _it flies in the face of everything I know about her. She'd never be so heartless as to dangle herself in front of me only to laugh in my face when she pulled away from me at the last second – it isn't in her nature._

He looked into her eyes, searching for an answer.

They were wide, innocent…and bloodshot.

"Ellie, are you feeling okay?" he asked her, his concern overriding his attraction to her.

"Oh, yeah," she whispered, pressing herself closer against him. "I feel _fine_."

_Jesus!_ he was having a hard time thinking coherently. "Did you…did someone slip something into your drink? Anyone give you anything in the ladies' room?"

"Just a _cock_-tail waitress," she answered, a devilish glint in her eyes.

"What?" he demanded, trying halfheartedly to pry her off of him. It did _not_ help that his dick was not even on the same chapter as his brain – it was singing "hallelujah!" and doing its absolute best to undermine all of his efforts at putting some distance between them. "What did she give you?"

"Advice," she purred. "She said, and I quote, 'girl, you should take that tall, dark, handsome man of yours home tonight and use him and abuse him until he begs you for more.'" She glanced down at his belt buckle, and then up at his face. "Looks like I'm not the only one who thinks that's a good idea…"

_Well, _damn. _Looks like Christmas came early for this lucky sonuvabitch! Hoo-rah! _

John cursed silently as he ruthlessly crushed any and all fantasies involving hands, hips, lips and latex and concentrated; he was a man of honor and did _not_ take advantage of women when they were unable to make fully-informed, _sober_ choices.

"Ellie, please, think for a minute," he ordered her. "Did you take anything at the bar? Someone give you a sip of someone else's drink? Did you take any pills?"

"Just a couple of Advil I found in your jacket," she told him before she leaned in and nipped his jaw with her teeth while rubbing the backs of her hands up and down his hipbones.

"Whoa! Whoa, hold on a minute!" he protested, pulling her hands out of his pockets and placing some air between their bodies. "I had _Advil_ in my jacket?"

"Yeah," she replied with a half-shrug. "There were a couple of individual packets in the inside pocket, so I took one. I'd rather not have a hangover tomorrow morning, if I can avoid it."

_Oh holy fuck… this is _not_ good._

John's lips thinned and he bit back a long series of curse words as he put his hands on her shoulders. "Ellie, what you took was _not_ aspirin. It was a sample of flunitrazepam that I got from a doctor when I was stationed in Japan and I had really, really bad insomnia."

"Fluni-whuh?"

"It's trade name is Rohypnol," he clarified, mentally kicking himself from here to Santa Barbara for forgetting to take the packets out of his pocket before they left for dinner.

"Rohypnol..." She stared up at him for what seemed like an eternity, and then she dropped her head onto his chest and began to laugh. "I roofied myself? Oh, God, Chuck will never let me live this down…Ellie Bartowski, Queen of 'Just Say No,' inadvertently manages to ingest a Schedule I controlled substance!"

Her laughter broke the tension. He closed his eyes, said a prayer of heartfelt thanks as he felt all of it – sexual, mental, emotional – slip away, like bathwater sluicing down the drain when the plug was pulled.

He released her wrists and she melted into him, snickering into his sternum.

"Well, that would certainly explain it!" Ellie said as she flipped her hair out of her eyes and rested her cheek on his chest.

"What's that?" John asked, using his chin to push away a few strands of her hair that were ticking his throat.

"Why I've been coming onto you hardcore for the past ten minutes," she responded, shuddering as she pulled back from him and folded her arms. "And I know _exactly_ how you must feel – I've been fending off Morgan for the past decade. This must've been awful for you, being sexually harassed like that – God, I am _so_ sorry!"

"Don't be," he protested as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm the one who should be apologizing."

"For what?" she inquired, a bemused expression on her face.

John searched for an answer, but all he could come up with where a handful of smartass remarks, all of which would blow his cover and guarantee himself a well-deserved slap in the face.

"It's okay, I think I understand," Ellie said with a self-deprecating smile. "Now tell me, how much of dose did I get?"

* * *

"Ellie, are you okay?" John asked, leaning against the bathroom's doorframe.

No answer.

She was ostensibly going through her nightly ablutions, but John was concerned – she usually only took an average of sixteen minutes and it had already been thirty.

He'd heard a series of pings earlier; that meant she was most likely texting with someone – (_Chuck – majorly embarrassed! Got rufi'd + almost bare-assed and freaky w/ John Casey!!! Need mental saniwipe, stat! El. XD_) – but he hadn't heard a peep out of her for the past ten minutes, and he was getting concerned.

She'd figured that the huge dinner she'd eaten would lessen the efficacy of the drug, but he was uneasy. The formulation of Rohypnol she'd taken was still in trials and he worried what it might do to her before the high wore off. Perhaps some of the nastier side effects, like respiratory depression, had caught up with her and she was now unconscious, faceplanted on the bathroom floor.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, staring at the door, willing it to open. It was one of those thin, hollow affairs with a puny little lock that insulted him with its flimsiness – one good wrench and it was _open sesame_. "Talk to me, Ellie."

Still no answer.

"If you don't open this door in five seconds, I'm coming in," he threatened, his voice laced with anxiety.

Silence.

He counted to five under his breath, gripped the handle and yanked.

_Skin…lots and lots of skin…_

That's all his mind could register as he stood there, rooted to the spot.

She was standing at the sink, gazing at herself in the mirror, a look of abject misery in her eyes, her cheeks smeared with tears and mascara, her hands covering her bare breasts.

"Ellie…are you okay?" he asked her again, careful to keep his tone soft and neutral and as he worked to muster his wits about him.

He saw her nose twitch and get a little redder and his eyes flicked to her cellphone.

It was lying face-up on the edge of the basin, on top of her pajamas.

John was suddenly very, very apprehensive.

"Did something happen to Chuck?" he asked, alarm and annoyance flaring up as he looked at the dark screen.

_Trust that idiot Bartowski to get himself compromised while I'm on vacation. _

_Asshole._

She shook her head no.

_Okay, who's next on the list of people she cares about?_

"Was it Devon?" he asked. "Did he say something?"

Ellie hung her head, turned around and pitched herself at him, her arms twining around his ribcage as she burst into tears.

The NSA had prepared him for a host of contingencies, including all known forms of atomic, biological and chemical warfare. Thanks to his Marine Corps training, he was proficient in the use of his rifle, not to mention a nearly endless list of firearms and incendiary devices. He was also skilled in an impressive number of martial arts, from Uechi Ryu karate to tae kwan do to aikido to capoeira, but John Casey had no fucking clue what to do with the half-naked woman who was crying incoherently in his arms.

_When in doubt, Lt. Casey, trust your instincts, _his commanding officer had told him at the start of his career and since his first instinct was to comfort her, John went with it.

"Shhh, it's okay," he crooned, one hand cupping her shoulder blade, the other stroking her hair as he held her. "It's okay."

He'd heard her cry twice before during surveillance.

The first time had been on a sunny afternoon on one of her days off. She'd been partway through _The Far Pavilions_ and had to put the book down until she could read again. That had been a brief, five-minute bout of sniffling, almost over before it had begun.

John had chalked it up to PMS and hadn't paid it much mind.

The second time had been after a long day in the ER. She'd lost five burn victims, one after another, in the span of two hours. It had been more than a little gut-wrenching to listen to her describing of her feelings of failure at being unable to save them, and then having to put those feelings aside and pretend to be strong and empathetic when she informed the surviving family members that their relatives hadn't made it.

Devon had been there to hold her as she cried it out, and John remembered thinking at the time that for all of his surfer dude posturing, Malibu Ken might actually have a clue.

This time was different, though. It seemed as if years of pain and anguish and frustration were surging out of her in all forms of precipitation – tears, spit, snot, the whole gamut of cranial waterworks – soaking his t-shirt clean through as she sobbed into it.

He hated it when women cried. It wasn't something that he could fix with fists or bullets or harsh words and it made him feel absolutely powerless, which he flat-out hated and feared.

In that moment, part of him wished he'd said "fuck it!" and taken the I-5 to San Diego.

But another part of him, a part that had survived his childhood under layers of military training and emotional Kevlar, reveled in the fact that Ellie Bartowski, the ultimate nurturer, had turned to _him_ in her moment of need.

Okay, so he was the only person there, but it still counted, right?

* * *

Her full-on sobbing was finally starting to subside into sniffles, so John took the opportunity to shift his weight, rest his cheek on top of her head and wait for her to tell him what happened.

He was willing to bet that that it was stress-related.

She'd been working ridiculous hours while planning a wedding. All she'd wanted was a little peace and quiet, and the strain of his presence, coupled with accidentally shooting him yesterday and drugging herself tonight, had proved to be too much for her to deal with.

He was dead wrong.

"John," she whispered softly, "is my butt too big?"

"What…?"

"My butt," she repeated, hiding her face in his shirt. "Is it too big?"

The words were tumbling out of his mouth before he had a chance to catch them. "Hell, no! Who the fuck said that to you?!"

She laughed, a sharp, brittle, clogged sound of derision. "Me, because I've been having a terrible time trying to find a wedding gown. From the waist down, I'm a freakin' heifer!"

"Listen, babe, I don't know jack shit about women's clothing, but I do know that you _not_ a heifer," he retorted. "You're upset over some fashion designer who can't design a wedding dress because he thinks that women should be shaped like little boys? You know what, fuck him, and fuck all those other idiots in that goddamn industry!"

She tipped her head back and the look in her eyes just about broke his heart. "What about my breasts? Are they too small?"

John closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He could not believe they were having this conversation...no, wait a minute, he could.

_Anything is possible when a Bartowski is involved. _

He opened his eyes, relaxed his jaw and let his right hand slide from her hair down to cup her face.

"They're perfect, Ellie," he said patiently as he brushed away the muddle of tears and mascara on her left cheek with his thumb. "Every part of you is perfect."

"Devon says that they don't match my butt," she confided quietly, her left hand bringing his right one down to rest on her breast. "He wants me to get implants…so I match."

He looked down at her hand, the one that was wearing Grandma Woodcomb's diamond, the one that had given him permission to touch her in a way he knew she never would have allowed had she not been drunk, high and hurting like hell.

She was so warm, so soft, so fucking beautiful that it took everything in him to keep from groping her like a horny teenage boy.

"Then Devon is a Schedule I dumbass," he told her bluntly.

Ellie's swift, sudden bark of laughter was exactly what John had been hoping for, and it made him relieved to hear it.

"Seriously, the guy rivals Grimes in his ability to be an un-fucking-believable dickhead," he continued, glad to finally be airing his opinion of the so-called "Captain Awesome." "Yeah, I'm sure he's a 'nice guy' with a 'big heart' and all that happy-crappy shit, but sometimes I think he just doesn't know when to shut the fuck up."

"I think you're one-hundred-percent right," Ellie agreed, beaming at him. "Of course, that could just be the drugs talking."

"Of course," John concurred with mock gravity. "Now, as to the matter of the nature of your curvy parts, Miss Bartowski, I would like to go on the record by saying that you are absolutely stunning from all angles, and I downright relish the privilege of being able to look at you."

_And touch you_, he added silently.

Both her eyes and her grin got a little bit wider. "You do?"

"Hell, yeah," he nodded, permitting himself the luxury of total honesty.

What harm could it do to tell her these things? She wasn't going to remember any of it tomorrow thanks to the Rohypnol, so he could theoretically tell her anything without fear of ensuing consequences.

"If you were free, I would be all over you like a fat kid on a cupcake," he admitted matter-of-factly.

Even wider with the eyes and the smile. "You would?"

"Yup."

There, he'd said it.

Well, maybe not all of it, but most of it.

Okay, only the physical attraction part, but thank you, God! – maybe now that he'd gotten that off of his chest, he could finally stop obsessing about her.

She glanced down to where her small, cool, diamond-studded hand was stacked atop his large, warm, callused one.

Of course, it _would_ help if he would got his hand off of _her_ chest.

"Sorry," he muttered, feeling all manner of asinine that he'd been palming her breast during the entire conversation.

"I'm not," she announced as she shoved her left hand to his hair, hooked her left leg around his hip, and planted her lips on his.


	9. Buried

Whenever John Casey had fantasized about kissing Ellie Bartowski, he had imagined it would be like kissing a princess in a fairytale: gentle, reverent, chaste.

He'd worked it out in his head quite a few times. They would go out on a real, honest-to-God date. He'd take her to a park or to the beach or to Disneyland (he was more than willing to put up with those creepy-ass dolls singing "It's a Small World" if it made her happy). They would have dinner, see a show, engage in some quality conversation. At the end of the night, he would take her in his arms.

He'd be extra cautious not to touch her anywhere inappropriate as he drew her close because she was a lady and she deserved to be treated as such. He would rest one hand lightly on her waist, the other between her shoulder blades, and he'd make sure that there was plenty of room so she could pull away if she wasn't ready.

He would brush his mouth over hers once, for no more than a total of five seconds. The contact would be limited to lips and it would be tender, brief and courteous – the kind of kiss that teenage girls thought about at night as they lay in their canopy beds, clutching their stuffed animals to their chests while they dreamed of knights in shining armor on white horses.

He wouldn't even consider opening his mouth to let his tongue or teeth in on the action because that was much too forward and it might give her a hint about all of the nasty, naughty – hell, since we're laying it all out on the line – out-and-out _filthy_ things he wanted to do to her and with her which would most probably make her want to run screaming for the hills.

Well, she'd sure shot that theory to hell, because here they were, wedged into a tiny bathroom in her grand-aunt's cabin on Big Bear Lake with her limbs wrapped around him like the ribbons on a Christmas present.

Her thighs were clasped around his hips, one of her hands was shoved into his back pocket the better to grip his ass with, and the other was massaging the short curls that grew at the nape of his neck as her tongue encouraged – no, let's be real here, people, _demanded_ – that he show her with his mouth what he'd like to do to her body.

All of the employee reviews during his time in the Marine Corps, the NSA and the Buy More featured glowing comments regarding John Casey's ability to adapt to any situation, and at that moment he was more than ready to live up to his hype.

He slanted his lips over hers as he backed her against the sink, nipped her a little with his teeth as he slid his hands down to grip her perfect butt, licked his way into her mouth as he lifted her up onto the counter and then repositioned her legs so they were as close as two people could get and still be wearing clothing.

He had a moment of concern that he was being too forceful with her, but that passed when she moaned in delight, ground her hips against him and sucked on his tongue like it was a Popsicle.

"Whoa," he muttered, reeling from the hormone rush as he came up for air. "Good girls don't kiss like that!"

"Oh, yes, they fuckin' _do_," she corrected him as she pulled him back down.

_Slow down…slow the fuck down,_ he tried to tell himself as all of the blood in his brain headed south of the border, but, of course, that was impossible. She was making those hot, sweet mewling sounds in the back of her throat that he'd been fantasizing about ever since he'd heard her get it on with Captain Dumbass that first night of surveillance and it was all he could do to keep from ripping off the rest of her clothes, tearing off his and screwing her in every damn position he could think of from now until springtime.

He settled for sliding his hands up her back and around her torso, letting his thumbs meet just under her breasts before they shifted up to brush across her nipples.

_Oh, damn, she likes that, _he thought as she whimpered and pressed herself into his palms, so he did it again, a little harder this time.

Ellie responded by tugging her mouth from his and licking the side of his throat and then using her pretty white teeth to nibble the tendons on his neck all the way up to his ear.

His eyes crossed as she bit down gently on his earlobe and said, "Your shirt, take it off."

John was loathe to stop touching her, even for a moment, but what the lady wanted, the lady was gonna get. He reared back, yanked his black long-sleeved t-shirt over his head and blindly tossed it away.

He thought it might have landed somewhere in the vicinity of the clothes she'd already shed, but he couldn't be sure because all he could see was her soft, skilled hands gliding over his chest.

The mood had shifted in the time it had taken for him to equalize their level of nakedness because she'd lost some of her urgency; she was moving slower now, taking her damn sweet time discovering all of the new skin she had to play with as she mapped his planes with the span of her palms and charted his textures with the pads of her fingers.

_God, it felt so good to be touched… _

No one had touched him like this in so long and he felt something quieter, deeper and fiercer starting to mingle with the lust that had been pumping through his veins for the past ten minutes as he watched her explore him.

"You're so beautiful," she whispered as she ran her fingers cautiously along his scars and bruises.

"Men aren't beautiful," he admonished with a sardonic smirk. "Especially not ones who get into as many scrapes as I do."

"Gorgeous, then," she corrected herself, stopping when she came to a rather wicked looking pucker of flesh near the top of his left shoulder. "This one, did it hurt a lot when they took the slug out?"

"It's nothing," he murmured as he drew her closer. "Just a mishap in the cargo bay."

"Don't lie to me, John Casey – I know what kind of scar a bullet leaves behind," she scolded him tenderly. She ran the tip of her index finger over a jagged white reminder on the right side of his ribcage. "This was from a knife fight, am I right?"

He nodded as his hand closed over hers. "Military-issue KA-BAR. How did you know?"

"We got a few soldiers and sailors on shore leave in the ER a few months ago,' she explained as she smoothed her other hand down his arm, wincing as she lingered on the Grumpy Band-aid on the swell of his biceps. "They liked to talk to the nurses about their battle scars. I paid attention."

He could feel the diamond on her ring finger pressing into his palm and it made something in his ribcage wrench brutally. "Ellie, we shouldn't do this."

She leaned forward and kissed the bruise on his collarbone. "Why not?"

He let his hands come to rest on her shoulders. "Because this isn't you who's doing this – "

"I'm practically positive that it's _me_ that's got her legs wrapped around _you_," she replied as she squeezed him a little tighter between her thighs and giggled. "And I'm also pretty sure that's not a gun down there."

"You'd be surprised," he quipped, but his words were strangled due to the wave of heat washing over him as he responded to her motion.

"Let's find out!" she suggested impishly, her hands snaking down to undo his belt buckle and fly faster than he could stop her.

John sucked in a deep breath and tried to think about non-sexual things as she slid her fingers into his boxer shorts and wrapped them around him.

"Ahhh! Ellie – " he ground out as he tried not squeeze her shoulders too hard.

"Mm-hmm?" she hummed as she leisurely pumped him in her fist.

"Your – your ring!" he rasped.

"Oops, sorry!" she apologized.

She removed her hand from his pants and he breathed a sigh of relief.

It was shortlived, though, because the next thing he knew, she'd pulled the diamond off of her finger, tossed it in the direction of their shirts and got right back to what she was doing.

"Stop! Stop! Wait a minute!" he panted, trying to dislodge her hand. "You just can't – "

"Why not? Am I not doing it right?" she asked as she used her free hand to pull the waistband of his boxers away from his hips to get better access to him.

"Fuck, yeah!" he growled before he remembered himself. "No! _Jesus Christ,_ wait – !"

"John," she sighed in a sweet, coaxing tone as she gazed up at him, "now would be a good time to shut the fuck up and kiss me."

He took her face in his hands, gasping as he stared at her lush, full, delectable mouth. "Ellie, I…God, I want you. You have _no idea_ how much I want you –"

"Yes, I do," she interrupted softly, her hands stilling.

"You do?"

"Yeah. I've known for months…I felt it the first time you looked at me."

"You did?"

"Yeah."

The peace was growing between them again, making their heart rates slow down and their breathing even out.

He lowered his forehead, rested it against hers as he closed his eyes. "You feel it, too, don't you? This thing between us."

She disengaged her hands, withdrew them from his pants, slid them up his back, mindful of his bruises. "Yeah… it scares me, how good I feel when I'm with you."

Holy fucking hell, it was scary how much he wanted that to be true.

_But this isn't the true Ellie, asshole, so stop fooling yourself._

"Of course, that could just be the drugs talking," John reminded her as he stroked the silk of her hair and the satin of her back.

"No, I don't think so," she disagreed, raising her head and smiling, brave and bashful at the same time, as she gazed up at him. "Rohypnol doesn't generate feelings, it just lowers one's inhibitions when it comes to expressing them."

He looked into her eyes. They were gunmetal grey, full of emotion and still bloodshot. "Can you honestly say that you'd be fooling around with me and saying the things that you've been saying, if you hadn't accidentally drugged yourself?"

Ellie bit her lip. "I...I don't know."

He knew she wasn't done talking, so he waited for her to work her way through it.

"I've been the responsible one for so long. Eleanor Faye Bartowski, straight-A student, Miss Fix-It, the good girl, the girl who can be counted on to do the right thing, make the right choices, buy the right foods, cook the right meals, date the right men…did you know that I picked Devon because I thought he'd make a good father? He's so good with his younger brothers, and he's so sweet with Chuck. He never complained, not once, when my brother moved in with us. He just said 'awesome!", moved all of his workout equipment into storage and told Chuck to make himself comfortable…"

Her confusion was spilling out of her in an almost incoherent tangle of words as she rambled on, but John didn't mind. Ellie needed him to listen and listen he would.

"I know that he behaves like a little boy sometimes, what with his adrenaline-junkie adventures and his frat-house potty humor, and then there's his insensitive douche of a dad who thinks we should videotape ourselves having sex so we can figure out what parts of our bodies 'need more work' at the gym, not to mention that evil bitch from hell he calls his mother, who tells me that I _must_ get my tits done and she'll pay for half as a wedding present – "

Her voice hitched and John tightened his arms around her, wondering what kind of strings he'd have to pull to get the Woodcombs renditioned to a CIA interrogation center in the Middle East.

"He's a doctor, so we won't have to worry about money, but what about quality time? Days go by and I don't see him…I get lonely, so lonely…I even start talking to the plants. Do you know what that's like?"

"Yeah," John said, thinking of several scotch-soaked monologues he'd delivered to his bonsai in the past year and a half. "I know what that's like."

"And Chuck disappears for what feels like days at a time, and he comes back with all these bruises and scratches and nicks and cuts and I just can't buy anymore of his 'live-action-roleplaying-got-out-of-hand' excuses because Morgan goes everywhere with him and he doesn't have any and I'm still fending _him_ off after telling him in no uncertain terms that it will _never_ happen. Meanwhile, I'm sitting alone in the house, having a glass or three of wine more and more often, and sometimes I think I'm going insane…or becoming and alcoholic…or, God forbid, _both_. And then I look out the window and I see you…"

She paused for a moment and looked up at him as she wiped her eyes with the the tips of her fingers.

He brushed a lock of hair back from her face. "You see me, and…?"

"I see you," she continued, her voice breaking a little, "and you're so big and so strong and so handsome and so quiet and so considerate and so polite to me whenever I see you and I think to myself, 'Why can't I have someone like him in my life? Why can't I attract a good, decent, responsible man like that? Why can't I go to sleep next to or wake up with or get married to or grow old with a man like that?'"

God, how could he answer her?

_Because I'm not the man you think I am. _

_Because the man you want is a mirage, a convenient truth created by the NSA to fool you and the rest of the civilians I come into contact with during this operation._

_Because the man you want will vanish when this mission is over and there'll be nothing left to ever show that he existed except a gold nametag and your memories of him._

"I know that's pretty heavy," she continued, giving him an apologetic shrug, "but it's the truth. I don't know why, but when I'm with you, it feels – it feels good. It feels right. It feels…it feels like…home."

John looked at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. In all of times he'd lain awake at night, thinking about her, wanting her, he never thought she'd was feeling the same way.

He gathered her close and sighed into the sweetness of her hair. "Oh, Ellie…"

"But then again, I don't know anything about you," she pointed out evenly. "For all I know, you could be a serial killer, one of those weird ones of the 'put-the-lotion-in-the-basket' variety…"

He chuckled and hugged her even tighter. "You are somethin', you know that?"

She hugged him just as tight, pressed a kiss to his heart.

The fit together so perfectly that he was afraid that he'd never let her go.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed his watch. "Christ, it's after two o'clock in the morning."

"I guess this means I'm not getting lucky tonight, am I?" she teased, half-hopeful, half-resigned.

"Well, I have this policy about sex," he informed her as he reached over and turned on the faucet. "I can't have it unless the person I'm with is capable of making a sober, informed choice."

He wanted to laugh out loud at the way she pouted.

"Come on," he cajoled, testing the temperature of the water before he reached for a washcloth, "let's get cleaned up and go to bed."

"Together?" she asked optimistically as she batted her eyelashes.

John shot her a jaundiced look. "Did you not hear what I just said?"

"Of course I did." Her attempt at being alluring gave way to sincerity. "I know it sounds silly, but you smell really, really good and I'd just like to…you know, lie next to you and…snuggle."

_Sometimes you gotta take one for the team,_ he remembered saying to Chuck about a year ago this time. God, he'd been such a smug, superior bastard when he'd tossed out that remark, not thinking for a moment that he'd ever find himself in this predicament.

"Okay," he capitulated, "but no hanky-panky. I swear, you try anything and you're sleeping in the SUV."

She held up her right hand, her thumb and pinky fingers folded together over her palm. "Girl Scouts' honor!"

He handed her the damp washcloth. "Well then, ladies first."

* * *

The fire was going once again, a warm, steady blaze as they settled onto his sleeping bag.

In the beginning they lay there, side-by-side, the covers from the bed pulled up to their chins, both a little hesitant to resume contact now that they'd had a chance to cool off and put some clothes back on.

It was Ellie who broke the silence.

"Are you comfortable?" she asked, rolling onto her side towards him.

"Yeah," John replied, mimicking her movement.

Their faces were inches apart on the pillows.

"Would you…?"

"Yes?"

"Would you hold me…for a little while?" she asked him, her silvery eyes turning gold in the glow of the flames.

"Come here," he told her, opening his arms.

She scuttled a little closer and he pulled her in the rest of the way. It took some doing, but somehow they managed to arrange their limbs in such a way that that was comfortable for the both of them – he on his side, she on her back. His left arm was under her neck, her knees were thrown across his thighs and their hands – his right, her left – were linked across her stomach.

"You didn't put the rock back on," he noticed, sensing the absence of metal between his middle and ring fingers.

"I left it in the soapdish," she confessed. "I…I don't know if I want to put it back on."

* * *

"Do you love him?" he asked her a little later, his fingers idling in her hair.

She didn't answer. She just turned her face towards his and breathed deeply.

"Do you?" he pressed.

"I don't want to talk about him," she said, her hand breaking free of his to cuddle up with her other arm against his chest.

* * *

The fire had died down to a few struggling logs and a buried mass of seething coals by the time she spoke again.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"I won't remember any of this when I wake up in the morning, will I?" she asked, her skin gilded by the dying firelight.

"No…I'm pretty sure you won't," he said, doing his best to stop his voice from breaking as he saw a tear slip from the corner of her eye and make its way down her face.

He caught it with his thumb, brushed it away before it hit her hairline, and felt something frozen shatter inside of him as he heard her breath catch.

"Will you?" she asked as the last of the flames died out. "Will you remember…anything?"

He buried his face in her hair, trying his damndest to imprint its scent in his long-term memory as he fought his weariness. He kissed her hairline, her forehead, the tip of her nose. She tilted her face up to his and their lips met again.

Her earlier kisses had tasted of hunger, of hope, of laughter, of lust, but this one was different. This one tasted of tears and desperation and heartache and regret and it forged something steely inside of him as their lips parted.

"Yeah," he told her, his voice rough with determination. "I'll remember. I'll remember everything."

"I'm glad," she whispered fiercely, hugging him to her in the darkness.

There was nothing left for him to say in return except maybe three little words that were on the tip of tongue, begging to be spoken once, just once, just to give him closure, but they, like all of the others that might compromise his mission, would have to remain buried deep inside of him forever.

So he did the only thing there was left to do: he held her as she fell asleep.

* * *

John woke up just before dawn to see the first hint of light reflecting off of the mountains and filtering in through the curtains, painting Ellie's face lavender and green and gold as she slept on, unconscious and innocent.

_So fuckin' beautiful_, he thought as he looked down at her, drinking in the way her long, dark hair was scattered all over the pillow and her left hand was curled into a fist around the covers.

He made his way silently to the bathroom and closed the door behind him before turning on the light.

_Gotta be here somewhere_, he told himself as he sifted through the slivers of soap Aunt Nora had piled into her soapdish. _Ah, here we go!_

Two and a half carats, E-quality, oval-cut, set in platinum, a repulsive thing of radiant beauty even in the harsh fluorescence of the overhead light.

John held it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger as he rinsed a bit of soap scum off of it and then dried it in one of the face towels.

He turned the light off, opened the door and returned to the sleeping bag.

Ellie was still asleep, but her left hand had unclenched and now lay serenely on her chest, as if holding the covers to her breasts.

He knelt down slowly, watching her for any sign of wakefulness.

_None._ She was dead to the world.

He took a deep breath, let it out, took another.

_This is the right thing to do_, he reminded himself as he cautiously picked up her left hand.

She made a sound of protest, as if she were dreaming of something incredibly distasteful, and rolled away, trapping that hand under her body.

_Damnit!_

Her right hand flipped out of the covers and landed smack against his thigh.

John froze, wondering if this was the moment she was going to wake up and start screaming.

Ellie did nothing of the sort, surprising him as she rolled back towards him, her left hand joining the right one that was resting on his thigh.

He was successful in his second attempt, slipping the ring onto her finger so easily that he wondered if he'd accidentally left a little soap on it.

And still she slept on.

He decided to go for broke, gathering her up, covers and all, and carrying her to her bed as he thought up reasons for doing so in case she stirred.

_We had a slumber party that went a little too late…?_

_We flipped a coin to see who got the fire and I lost…?_

_You dragged your blankets out here after I had already passed out…?_

He ended up not needing any of those excuses because she stayed asleep throughout the procedure, lost in some delicious dreamworld of her own making even as he lay her down on the chilly fitted sheet and started tucking the covers in around her.

"Goodnight, Princess," he whispered before he kissed her forehead one last time, went back to the living room and buried himself once more in his cold, lonely sleeping bag.


	10. Needed

Logic dictates that there's bound to be a certain amount of awkwardness the morning after two people who barely know each other engage in any kind of intimate activity, but such was not the case for the man and the woman who woke up on Sunday morning in that little cabin on Big Bear Lake.

This was mainly because one of them was extensively skilled in the fine art of deception, and that one was sure that the other wouldn't remember a damn thing.

"Good morning," John called in a cheerful tone as Ellie stumbled her way from the bedroom to the kitchen.

"Oh, God, who turned on the sun?" she grumbled as she eased herself down into a chair and hid her face in her arms.

John placed a steaming mug in front of her. "Here, coffee."

One of her hands groped along the surface of the table until it connected with the mug. Her fingers curled around the handle and pulled it closer to as she worked up enough energy to make the supreme effort of taking a sip. "Mmmm…thanks – I needed that!"

"Sleep well?" he asked, using every trick in his training to shade his voice with the right amount of conversational casualness as he returned his attention to skillets he was using to prepare breakfast.

"Like the dead," she answered as she took another sip. "Do you have any – ? Oh, wait they're right here! Bless you, John, you are officially my hero."

He smiled as he stirred. She must have discovered the half-dozen aspirin tablets he'd laid out on the table for her.

"Six, huh? I must have been drinking like a frat boy at a kegger last night," she commented as she popped them in her mouth and chased them with a swallow of coffee. "Oh, God, what did I _do_?"

John opened his mouth to respond, but Ellie put her hand up to stop him. "No, don't tell me – I do _not_ want to know."

"You sure?" he asked, pushing around the contents of the frying pan as he glanced at her.

"Oh yeah," she said, leaning back and scratching her stomach absently. "I've decided that in this case, ignorance is bliss."

"If you say so," he capitulated, trying not to ogle her as she executed a prolonged full-body yawn that made her loose floral nightgown to mold to her torso – flannel was not supposed to be tempting, but she somehow managed to make the high-necked, long-sleeved garment incredibly suggestive with the way she worked the kinks out of her joints.

The weight of the material completely concealed her from neck to ankles, but he knew what lay underneath, and that knowledge was more than enough for his heart rate to make the jump to light speed.

_Christ have mercy._

He felt that familiar "tight" feeling starting down below and fought it with everything he had. _Quick, think about something else, _anything_ else besides what she looks like naked!_

"So, what's for breakfast, chef?" she asked, extending an arm along the length of the table and resting her cheek in the crook of her elbow.

_Ice fishing…frostbite…men's figure skating…_

She blinked languorously and gave him a winsome smile.

Again his body responded to her, but this time it was his chest that felt tight.

Fuck breakfast, he wanted to pick her up, carry her to the bedroom, and sleep the day away holding her in his arms.

_Jesus, man, listen to yourself_, John chided the uninvited romantic who'd momentarily hijacked his mind. _Next thing you know, you'll start spouting poetry. Get a grip, shit-for-brains!_

"Steak and eggs with fried-up mashed potatoes," he replied, moving the hash around with a wooden spoon. "I didn't want to travel back with the other half of my doggie bag so I figured we could split it this morning."

"Works for me," Ellie concurred as she played with the handle on her coffee mug. "You're a pretty resourceful man, John Casey."

_Lady, you have no idea._

* * *

"Shower's all yours," Ellie called to him an hour later, a cloud of steam wafting out of the door as she stepped out of the bathroom.

"Thanks," John replied as he picked up his towel, clothes, and kit from the ottoman.

Thirty minutes, tops, and he was out of there – thank you, _Jesus_.

"Hold it," she ordered, putting an arm out in front of him as he was about to enter.

Instinct superseded reasoning: before either of them could think, he'd dropped his stuff, blocked the maneuver, spun her around by her wrist, and shoved her up against the wall.

"Oh, sorry! My bad," he spluttered, releasing her instantly and backing away. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm…I'm fine," she murmured as she turned around slowly. "Karate?"

He nodded as he bent down to gather his things. "Uechi Ryu. 20 years."

"You have to teach me that move sometime," she said, her voice soft and speculative as she looked him up and down and rubbed her wrist. "Take off your shirt."

He stood up slowly. "What?"

She reached out and tugged at the hem of the garment in question. "Your shirt, take it off."

The situation and the tone were different, but the words were identical to the ones she'd whispered to him last night when they'd fooled around in the very same room that they were standing in front of right now.

John swallowed and blinked as he retreated into the bathroom. "Uh…why?"

"Because I have to have a look at your arm," Ellie explained patiently as she advanced. She smiled as she shut the door behind her. "Sorry about the humidity, but I think you'll be more comfortable without that cold draft blowing in."

He nodded in agreement, his eyes never leaving hers as he placed his gear on the closed lid of the toilet seat, reached for the back of the neckline of his shirt, and slowly dragged it over his head. She'd openly admired his body last night under the influence of the drug. Would she react the same way now?

There was a momentary bit of snow blindness as he pulled his white t-shirt clear of his neck, then he could see once more.

_Oh, fucking hell, the answer would have to be 'yes,' wouldn't it?_

There it was: that look in her eyes of low-level flirtation, eager expectation, and unabashed appreciation. It was giving him ideas – the kind of ideas that were better suited to the set of a pornographic Hallmark movie-of-the-week than the wrap-up of his so-called "vacation."

She was reaching for him, her hands warm and firm as they connected with torso– John gripped the edge of the sink and grit his teeth – and turned him so that his injured arm was easily accessible.

"Looks like you're healing up pretty well," Ellie said as she gently peeled the Grumpy Band-aid from his skin.

He grunted in response. _It's official, ladies and gentlemen: John Casey is fucking clueless._

Her touch was perfectly impersonal as she inspected the wound. "Does it hurt?"

"What's that?" he asked, looking away from her cleavage. Not eight hours ago he'd been up close and personal with it, and he was struggling mightily to keep from attempting to renew the acquaintance.

"Your arm. Does it hurt?" She pushed a hank of wet hair back behind her ear with her left hand and the overhead light caught and blazed on the differentiated facets of the family diamond.

_Fucking clueless and goddamn pathetic, yes, sir._

"No."

_But you can try a little lower if you want to get your hands on something that does._

Jesus Christ, he needed to get out of there, _fast_, before his inner monologue went on broadcast.

"Flex," she ordered.

He straightened his arm, his triceps and deltoids hardening as he pushed his elbow away from his body.

"Good, no blood," she announced. "Now make a fist and curl it towards your shoulder."

He obeyed, his biceps bulging in an almost obscene manner as he pulled his wrist across his chest.

She bit her bottom lip. "What the – ?"

"What?" he demanded.

"This wasn't here on Friday," she said, tracing her fingers over a bit of sensitive skin that covered his trapezius muscle.

John twisted until he could see what had captured her interest. "Whoa…"

The little lady had left her mark on him and then some: full set of teeth were lividly imprinted on the spot where his neck met his shoulder, and they were joined by an array of unbroken scratch marks that started at the nape of his neck and ended at the base of his spine, and twin splays of fingernail indentations that were gouged into his flesh on either side of the small of his back.

Major Casey's eyes met and held hers in the mirror as he waited to see how she would react to the evidence of their impromptu late-night makeout session.

_Fight, flight or fuck, baby girl – what's it gonna be? Gotta warn ya – leave it up to me, and it'll be the two of us getting' steamy in that shower stall, but this time it'll be _my_ turn to do the marking._

She began to back away from him, her eyes enormous and afraid. "I…uh…did…um, how…?"

He felt something sick and ashamed twisting in his ribcage as she clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the sob struggling to escape from her throat.

What a fucking fool he'd been to drop the cover, even if it was just for a moment.

_That's what you get for forgetting your mission, numb nuts._

Her shoulderblades connected with the door and she recovered her power of speech. "Oh, my God! Did _I_…?"

Big Quiet John from the Buy More answered her unspoken question. "Yeah, about those. I got, um, accosted by a somewhat intoxicated young lady at the bar at the end of the night. She was…er, very enthusiastic."

"Oh no," she whispered, sinking her face into her palms. "I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" he asked her as he reached past her to retrieve his towel from the bar.

"I'm such a loser," she moaned as she leaned into him. "You turned her down, didn't you? Because of me – the wasted albatross hanging around your neck!"

"Hey, hey," he said softly as he patted her shoulder. "Don't flatter yourself. There were plenty of other reasons I said 'no' besides making sure you got home safely."

"Yeah, like what?" she demanded, a little of her good humor restored.

"Like, um, I prefer my women to be – "

"Sober?" she quipped.

"Definitely. Smashed and sloppy ain't my style." He shrugged. "Think of it as you saving me from doing something I would've regretted later. Besides which, I kind of like albatrosses – they're good luck."

"Unless some idiot shoots 'em," she countered, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands.

"So the moral of our story is…?"

"No more BB guns?" she offered with a shy grin.

"No more BB guns," he agreed with a straight face. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to take a shower. You can decide whether or not you want to re-Grumpify me after I'm done, okay?"

"Deal!" Ellie responded, extending her hand.

John took it, shook it, and shooed her out of the room.

A minute later he was completely naked and in the process of opening the shower curtain when he discovered that she hadn't yet removed her bodywash.

_Oh, I am a bad, bad man…_

He turned on the faucet and waited for the flow to warm up, praying there was enough hot water for him to do what he'd needed to do the moment she'd closed the bathroom door behind her. He stepped into the tub, reached for the bottle, flipped open the cap, inhaled and let himself luxuriate in the scent.

_I am so going to hell for this_…

He upended the bottle and squeezed out enough of the liquid to fill his palm, making a mental note of the brand she preferred.

_And I'll smell like a goddamn flower garden when I do, but I don't fuckin' care…_

He put his left hand against the cool, clean tile, rested his forehead against his forearm, took himself in his right hand and groaned as he began to fantasize about laying her down in a field of daisies, his wrists pushing up the hem of her short, silky skirt as he ran his hands up the length of her smooth, silky thighs.

_A man has his needs…_

* * *

"So…"

"So."

They were standing face-to-face in the living room, both ready for the long drive back after helping each other load up their respective vehicles and having a nice, friendly disagreement over who got to take the bag of garbage to the dump.

He'd told her it was the least he could do because she'd been kind enough to let him stay there when he'd barged in on her.

She'd told him that he didn't know where the dump was, it would take too long to tell him how to get there, and he'd better just hand over the trashbag before she got mad at him and kicked him in the shins.

He'd let her win, but only because he'd felt guilty about using up the rest of the hot water while spending some quality time with her bottle of Olay Body Cleansing with Crème Ribbons and imagining what it would be like to make hot, nasty, naughty love to her in the Los Angeles County Arboretum.

Funny how he'd spend hours watching her and McPreeny go at it, visualized all of the different ways he could go one better than He Who Was Made of "Awesome" when it came to rocking her world, and still she carried that aura of purity and innocence about her. There was just no corrupting her. Not that he wouldn't like to try.

There were so many very, very inappropriate things that he'd love to do for her, with her, to her, if he ever got the chance again.

_Next time,_ he vowed as he gazed at her standing there in that ridiculous matching knitted set of sunshine yellow mittens, scarf and hat, _Next time, baby girl, you're gonna be sober, I'm gonna make sure that you know _exactly_ who I am, and we're gonna burn a fuckin' hole through the goddamn floor…if there ever is a next time._

He knew he was looking at her too intensely, but he couldn't help himself. Fuckin' Christ he wanted her, and this was probably the last time he'd ever get a chance to be alone with her, no brother, no fiancé, no closed-circuit television monitoring their every move.

One part of him wanted to howl with frustration at choosing his principles over his dick last night, the other was grateful that he was finally going back to the familiarity of his home turf, even though he knew that it would never be the same.

Too much crazy shit of the emotional variety had gone down this weekend for him to be able to regard Eleanor Fay Bartowski the same way he had before he'd gotten snowed in with her.

"It's going to be a long drive back," she said, suddenly shy as she ducked her head.

"Yeah," he agreed, nodding in his best "aw, shucks" manner as he slid his hands into his pockets.

She bit her lip, smiled shyly up at him. "John, I…I just wanted to say…despite the blizzard and the half-day of snow-shoveling…and the un-remember-able bender I went on at the bar…this was the best vacation I've ever had."

His response was honest, genuine, and out of his mouth before he could check it. "Me, too."

She toed the medium blue carpet. "So…"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "So…?"

She closed the distance between the two of them, pitching her body forward into his as she wrapped her arms around his chest and sighing as she nestled in close.

He reacted unconsciously, hugging her to him and burying his nose in her hair as she snuggled deeper into his arms.

_It's so fucking unfair that this is all we'll ever have_, he thought as he fought the feral surge of regret that came with the bitter sweetness of holding her.

She pulled away and he didn't try to stop her.

If he did, he might never let her go.

"I'll, uh, see you back at the complex," he said, reaching out to adjust the angle of her hat in what he hoped was a brotherly fashion. "Stay warm."

"You, too," she said, slightly adjusting the collar of his jacket. "Take care."

"I will," he replied, picking up his sleeping bag.

"Hey, betcha I get home before you do," she dared him as he opened the door.

"How much?" he challenged, looking back at her.

"Dinner for the winner?" she suggested, folding her arms as she chuckled.

"Done," he answered her as he headed out the door.

"I want more of that stroganoff," she called after him.

"Well, you're gonna have to wait," he called back as he shoved the sleeping bag into the cargo area of his SUV and slammed the door shut. "Because you're gonna be making me roast chicken and twice-baked potatoes."

"We'll just have to see about that, won't we?" she retorted pertly, her eyes dancing.

He watched her face light up with mirth as he got in the car, and felt something warm and tender filling up those places inside of him that despair had stripped bare mere minutes ago.

He had her friendship and he had her laughter. They were more than a man like him could ever expect to have, more than a man like him deserved.

For now, it was more than enough.

* * *

John pulled into the parking lot of the Echo Park apartment complex where he'd made his home for the last year and smirked.

_Heh-heh – _first_!_

He used the console on his vehicle to deactivate the alarm systems for his apartment, unloaded the cargo area, and checked his e-mail.

_Five hundred sixty-two messages, none of them High Priority – standard for a three-day sabbatical. _

He checked his voicemail.

_Eighty-five, none of them marked "Urgent" – average._

He checked the bulletins.

_The United States was still functioning…President-Elect Obama was still getting his briefings…Governor Sarah Palin was still running her mouth…this terrorist was spotted golfing in Augusta, GA… that one had been seen getting his back waxed at The J Sisters in New York…nothing out of the ordinary._

He wasn't allowed to touch any of the messages until tomorrow morning, so instead he set about taking care of his gear.

He carefully cleaned each of the weapons he'd brought with him and put them back in their storage units. He washed out the Tupperware containers that he'd used to transport the stroganoff and placed them on his drying rack. He put his sleeping bag in the washer, and then transferred it to the dryer when it had cycled through.

John was in the process of putting all of the clothes he'd worn that weekend into the wash when he discovered that something was missing: the shirt he'd worn on Saturday night.

Perhaps he'd miscounted…? Nope, he was definitely missing that shirt.

He'd been sure not to leave anything in the cabin and there was nothing left in the SUV except his usual complement of handguns, assault rifles and siege gear, so where the fuck was it?

_It's bound to turn up somewhere_, he told himself as he sat down in front of the monitors. He made sure not to touch any of them (fourteen hours until his vacation was officially over), but he did take a moment to check up on the feeds from Casa Bartowski.

No movement anywhere in the darkened apartment – odd.

Chuck wasn't in, but that wasn't unexpected – he was probably out with Sarah – but shouldn't Woodcomb be home by now, going through his Sunday grooming ritual (full-body manscaping, blue clay facial, manicure-pedicure)?

Speaking of being home by now, where was Ellie?

John relaxed a little as the front door opened, the lights went on, and Ellie strolled on in, her lime green "can't-get-this-baby-lost-at-LAX" rollaway trailing behind her as she made her way to her bedroom.

She picked up her phone and dialed a number.

John jumped as he realized that it was him she was calling.

He reached over, turned the volume down on the feed, and answered. "Yo."

"How in the hell did you beat me?" she demanded.

He watched her sink down onto the mattress and begin to pick at the laces on her boots. "I did have a head start, you know – that, and a lovely little invention called GPS helped me to maintain it."

"Yeah, but the highway traffic should've been brutal, even with GPS," she objected, using her toes to push her boots off. "So, when are you going to collect?"

"On the bet? I don't know," he teased, smiling as she peeled off her socks and wiggled her toes. "I was thinking about getting a little takeout tonight. Pizza from Solé or Chinese food from The Lotus Garden – which do you recommend?"

"Don't you even think about it," she warned him, the black and white face on the monitor displaying mock anger and amusement. "I will belt you with the spiral ham I've got in my fridge so hard your head will spin."

"All right then, what do you think I should go for?" he asked, leaning back in his armchair as she shimmied out of her sweatshirt.

"I think I should make better use of that ham and whip up some dinner for the two of us," she replied, looking at herself in the mirror and examining her reflection. "I've got fresh peas, some squash and zucchini, some French's yellow mustard…"

"Ah, the important things in life," he agreed, captivated by her unconsciously graceful motions as she undid the button and zipper on her jeans and pushed them down her legs.

"Damn skippy," she countered before she pulled her t-shirt over her head. "French's is God-food when it comes to ham."

"You'll get no arguments here," he said as she ran a hand through her hair and turned this way and that in the mirror, adjusting the display of her breasts in her bra and fixing the position of the elastics on her underwear. "I'm in complete agreement with you."

He watched as she turned to her suitcase and unzipped it. "Good."

"So…who else is coming to dinner?" he asked, watching as she tossed clothing at the hamper.

"Chuck and Sarah are at the movies, and Devon is, um, out with his frat buddies tonight," she said, placing her grooming kit on the bed. "One of his former pledges is getting married this winter, and they're planning the bachelor party. I think it's just going to be you and me."

"Okay…how about I bring dessert?" John tried to remember what he had on hand in his pantry. "I can whip up a pudding pie in no time."

"Ix-nay the udding-pay – got a dress to fit into," she reminded him as she fished out the last garment from her suitcase.

He sat up straight in his seat, unsure if what he was really seeing what he thought he was seeing on the screen. "No…"

"Yes, sad, but true. No more deviations from my diet," she reminded him sternly. "If you're dead set on dessert, we could do berries and cream – got any ideas?"

He watched, transfixed as she held the dark fabric up to her nose and her eyes drifted shut. "Um, raspberries…?"

"Perfect – see you at seven!" she exclaimed before she hung up, rolled onto her side, and buried her face in the piece of clothing she was holding.

_Well, well, well…_

He no longer needed to wonder where his missing shirt had gone.

Ellie had taken it.


	11. Trusted

"Can I ask you a question?" Ellie inquired as she finished scrubbing the grainy skin of the zucchini and handed it to him.

"Sure," John replied, slicing off the top and bottom of the vegetable and cutting it into thin strips.

She misted the yellow squash with veggie wash and applied the brush. "Why do the Buy More boys always call you by your last name? What I mean to say is, do you prefer to be called 'Casey' or 'John' or some other heretofore unspecified nickname?"

Her eyelashes brushed against her cheeks as she smiled at him, and he noticed that she was wearing makeup. Not too much, just a little mascara and lip-gloss. She didn't put on the war paint those nights she and Captain Awful stayed in for dinner, but she'd put it on for him.

Jesus, had it only been last night that they'd made utter fools of themselves in that karaoke bar? Less than twenty-four hours since they'd made out like a couple of horny teenagers in her aunt's bathroom and he'd fallen asleep holding her in his arms? His hands shook as he imagined what it would be like to hold her again.

"Not a lot of people call me by my first name," he admitted. "Most people call me 'Casey'."

"Even your dad?"

John shrugged a shoulder to alleviate the tension in his neck as he scooped the zucchini into a bowl. "My father isn't real big into nicknames.'"

"What does your mom call you?" Ellie asked, as she placed the second vegetable at the top of the cutting board he was using.

His concentration slipped as he watched her pump some liquid soap into her hands, and start washing them in a manner that reminded him of what he'd done earlier with her Oil of Olay with Crème Ribbons.

_I am so going to Hell for that._

He fumbled blindly for the second vegetable. "She, um, calls me…"

"John?"

Her wet, slippery hand reached out and came to rest atop his. She gripped it gently. Their eyes met and held. His heart rate sped up as time slowed down and he forgot to breathe.

"You were about to take a slice out of your thumb," she notified him as she glanced down at the knife.

_Jesus Christ, that was close. Almost lost a body part there…_

"My mother calls me 'Johnny-Boy'," he admitted in a rush before clearing his throat and adjusting his hold on the squash.

"Hmmm…'Johnny Boy,'" she said, testing the name as she dried her hands. "Nope, doesn't work for me. I really like 'John,' but if most of your friends call you 'Casey,' then I should really get with the program, right?"

He bit his lips to keep from protesting. Very few people called him by his first name, mainly because he preferred to maintain a level of formality between himself and others. His fellow officers in the Corps, other intelligence agents, even the women he'd dated never called him anything but 'Casey'. It was a barrier that kept things from getting too personal. It was different with her. He didn't want any barriers between them, but they were there all the same, those little reminders of the life he'd chosen: the bugs he'd used to infect her kitchen with, the fake identification tucked inside his wallet, that piece of compressed coal twinkling like a distant desert star on her left hand.

She was all but leaning against him, but she would always be light years away.

"You can call me anything you want," he replied nonchalantly. "Just don't call me 'late for dinner.'"

"You? Never!" she countered, a teasing tone in her voice as she hip-checked him. "I set my clock by you on Sunday nights – always fifteen minutes early."

Their eyes met and her smile shifted imperceptibly, her lips softening as her gaze slid down to his mouth.

Now if that wasn't the universal signal for "I want you to kiss me," he didn't know what was.

Any other operation, any other woman, and they would've been halfway to her bedroom by now, dinner be damned.

But this was good, sweet, wholesome, innocent Eleanor Fay. He'd barged in on her life and she'd welcomed him with open arms. He'd infiltrated her home, invaded her privacy, insisted that her brother lie to her on a daily basis, and she fed him, laughed with him, and confided in him. It ate away at his conscience like salt and vinegar on a dirty penny every time he looked into her eyes, the he could see her faith in him mirrored there.

She trusted him, even though there was absolutely no reason in the world for her to do so, and it interfered with the ruthless, livid energy that fed his ability to mobilize, execute, and function.

It was cruel joke, that every time he felt himself getting hard for her below the belt, he also felt something growing soft up in his ribcage. When she looked at him like she was now, he didn't want to be a cold-blooded killing machine; he wanted to marry her, make love to her, raise a pack of dark-haired, grey-eyed babies in suburbia with her.

But who would be there to keep the bad guys at bay? Who would hold back the religious fundamentalists, the filthy rich, and the corrupted politicians who threatened the safety of their nation from within and without, all in the name of God, gold or glory? Who would care enough to put his life on the line every day so women like her could live the kind of life that she chose for herself?

There weren't many men anymore who understood the need to defend the innocent from all that was harsh, brutal and evil in this world. There were countries where women were treated little better than animals, bipedal wombs that had to keep their eyes lowered and speak deferentially lest they be judged to be "disrespectful." He'd seen what those "men" had done to those women, how they had violated, mutilated, degraded them. When he looked into Ellie's eyes, John knew without a doubt that he'd have no problem terminating every last one of those motherfuckers with extreme prejudice before they ever got near her, but how could he keep his head in the game when she could calm the rage he needed to operate with a touch of her hand?

Holy hell, it was crippling, this need to shelter her from everything that could hurt her, especially deceitful assholes like himself. She didn't deserve the kind of shit that the intelligence community had brought into her life. He wondered what it would take to protect her from the inevitable fallout.

_Isn't it obvious, dickhead? Get her and Dumbass married and out of the state. You do a little revising on her government documents, make sure every one of her lines of communication are encrypted so they can't trace it back to Brother Dearest and "hello, goodbye!" – baby girl's off the grid. Of course, that mean you'll never see her again, but that's the price you've gotta pay for choosing this life._

"So, have you figured out how you want your wedding to go?" he asked, bracing himself for a dose of reality.

Ellie pushed her bangs back from her forehead. "What I want and what's going to happen are two different things."

"Why? You're the bride. It should be your day, shouldn't it?"

She folded her arms and rested her backside against the counter. "Technically, yes, but I've seen the writing on the wall. My future in-laws are footing the bill, so I predict that it's going to be 'The Wedding According to Honey': fussy dress, festooned church, four hundred guests, five feet high flower arrangements – the kind of over-the-top orgy of spending that reality TV addicts thrive on."

"Ouch," he murmured as he finished the yellow squash.

"Yeah," she agreed, twisting her lips as she toyed with her engagement ring. "The only thing she's letting me choose is the brand of champagne for the reception."

John wanted to put his arms around her, but he knew it was stupid to tempt fate. He kept his hands to himself as he crossed to the stove and dumped the contents of the bowl into the garlic butter sizzling in the skillet. "So what kind did you pick?"

"Bollinger," she replied as she pulled down two plates and two wineglasses from the cabinets.

"Good, solid choice. Not too expensive, but not bargain basement either," he observed as he manipulated the spatula.

"I didn't want them to think I was marrying Devon for his money," she joked. Her face dimmed as she opened the flatware drawer and took out forks, knives, and spoons. "My parents served Bollinger the last New Year's Eve we were together. I was fifteen. Dad let me have a sip, made me promise not to tell Mom."

"You were close, weren't you?" He knew he was heading out into deep water, but Big, Quiet John from the Buy More didn't know that Papa Bartowski was a sensitive topic.

"Yeah," she said, her voice shaking as she chose serving spoons. "He was a great dad. Chuck's best friend, when we were growing up. Mine, too. We would all watch _Star Trek: The Next Generation _on Monday nights. He taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, make pancakes. He was going to make us pancakes for dinner the night he…left."

John risked a glance, and knew straightaway that he'd hit a nerve. She was looking at the future place settings, her chin quivering, her breathing slow and measured.

He turned down the heat under the skillet and moved towards her, put a hand on her shoulder. Her bottom lip trembled as she put her hand over his and focused on the tiles that decorated the backsplash. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn't help himself. She was in pain, and that was not okay with him.

"I'm okay," she promised, squeezing his fingers with her own. "I just wish he were here. I could use some familial moral support."

"And someone to walk you down the aisle, I bet," he added.

She nodded, a miserable grin creeping over her face. "That, too. Porno-Boy-Shorts the First is begging to do the honors."

"Did you tell him to take a flying leap at a rolling doughnut?" he asked as he made a mental note to have the IRS audit the tax returns of the doctors Woodcomb for the last five years.

Ellie snort-laughed as she wiped at her eyes. "Take a 'what' at a 'what'?"

"It's an old saying of my grandma's," he explained. "It translates roughly into 'did you tell him to fuck off?'"

"No!" she laughed. "I can't say that! He's going to be my father-in-law!"

"Yeah, but he shouldn't be volunteering himself for a position that he's not qualified to fill," John replied, his eye straying to the vegetables. "If anyone but your dad should be walking you down the aisle, it should be Chuck."

"My thoughts exactly," Ellie agreed as she went to the fridge and took out the mustard.

"You need a serving dish for that?" he asked her as pointed with his spatula to the place where she kept her condiment crockery.

Ellie cocked her head to the side. "No, I don't think so."

"You sure?" John pressed, indicating the platter and dishes she'd selected. "This dinner's getting a five-star tjutzing. One would think that the mustard would have to be served from something made of crystal."

She grinned as she placed her index finger atop the nozzle and began shaking it. "Trust me, John, this stuff is best straight from the bottle."

* * *

"So," he began as he placed his napkin on his lap. "If you could plan the perfect wedding, how would it go?"

"I've always wanted to get married on the beach," she answered, lifting her plate up for two slices of ham. "In the late afternoon, when the light's beautiful. Simple gown, no veil, just some begonias and the sand between my toes."

"Sounds like good times," he said as he helped himself to the sautéed squash.

"You ever been married?" Ellie asked him as she twisted open the mustard bottle's top.

"Me? No," he replied quickly as he reached for the spoon for the peas.

She swirled the mustard in a counterclockwise spiral on her ham. "Like being a bachelor too much?"

"Nope," he answered as he took the mustard from her.

"Then why?" she pressed. "I don't mean to pry, but look at you: you're tall, gorgeous, considerate, completely ripped – I expect the women would be lining up."

"Stop, stop, you're embarrassing me," he protested halfheartedly as he picked up his wine glass.

"I'm just telling the truth," she shot back.

John considered his glass for a moment. "Well, the truth is that I tend to fall for women I can't have."

"Like who?" she asked, picking up her glass.

He didn't dare look her in the eye because if he did, he might end up blurting out something that would make it impossible for them to ever again share the easy camaraderie they were enjoying right now. Best keep it simple and honest. "The kind of woman I'm attracted to – I can't give her the kind of life she deserves."

"Money isn't everything, John. If I had to choose between a good man without a cent to his name and an asshole who can buy anything he wants, I'd choose the good man, every time," Ellie declared quietly before she tactfully changed the subject. "So what shall we toast to?"

He smiled at her, desperately grateful that he'd managed to mislead her without lying. "How about friendship?"

She grinned tenderly at him as she raised her glass. "Absolutely – to friendship."

* * *

Friendship.

It was a word that encompassed their relationship, but it seemed such a pitiful descriptor for what she meant to him.

Yes, she was dazzling, but there was so much more to her than just her beautiful face and body. She had a huge heart, a serene and sympathetic soul, a strong sense of personal integrity. It was possible that if he spilled his guts about who he really was, what he really did for a living, and why he'd become part of her life, that she just might be ready to believe without reservation, willing to listen without judging, and able to deal without freaking out.

He almost wished that she had been the one to become the Intersect. That way he would have been the lucky bastard who got to be her cover boyfriend, to protect her and keep her safe, while Walker got to rock the fugly green shirt and work double shifts in the sixth circle of hell. But luck had never been much of a lady to him, so here he was, building trust on pillars of sand with this amazing woman he would have to walk away from one day without ever getting a chance to tell her how he really felt about her. When they were both sober, that is.

_I know you're with someone else, and this is way out of line, but you need to know that I'm crazy about you, have been since the day you invited me to dinner, will be until the day I die…_

That was just a fantasy because he had a job to do, priorities to maintain, an op to run, and her kid brother to keep alive.

The only way he had to express his emotions was to keep his goddamn trap shut and keep on fighting the good fight. Tonight was the end of his "shore leave," maybe the last night he would ever get to be alone with her like this. He wasn't about to go spoiling it by inserting his foot into his mouth and chewing to the motherfucking hip.

"You're so quiet," she observed as she picked up her fork and knife. "What are you thinking about?"

He grimaced as he felt his heart crack right down the middle. "I was thinking about the fact that I have to go back to work tomorrow."

"Yeah, it kind of sucks, doesn't it?" she commiserated.

_Lady, you have _no_ idea._

* * *

"We need some 'muzak,'" Ellie announced as she stashed the large plastic Tupperware container that she'd officially designated as "his" the first night she'd had him over to dinner in the fridge. "What are you in the mood for?"

"You choose," he told her as he put the plastic washtub in the sink and squirted some dishwashing detergent into it.

"Any objections to jazz?" she asked, inspecting her collection of kitchen tunes.

"Negatory," he answered as he turned on the hot water.

There was a series of clicks and whirrs as she loaded up the CD player, then the strains of a jazz trumpet filled the room as she sidled up to him. "Got your towel?"

"Right here," he answered, holding up the dishcloth.

She pumped some hand lotion onto her palms, slathered her fingers, and held them up. "Gloves?"

He helped her into the sunny yellow second skins that she wore while she did her sink-work. "Gloves."

"Let's begin," she intoned, plunging her hands unto the hot, soapy water and coming up with a plate. She scrubbed it, rinsed it, and handed it to him. "Dinner plate."

"Dinner plate," he repeated as he took it, grinning at her as she pretended to be all stern and serious.

"No smiling in the operating theater, Nurse," she scolded him as she handed it over.

"Sorry, Doctor," he replied contritely before taking it as he winked at her.

Ellie insisted that Mary Poppins was right on the money with "you find the fun and 'snap!" – the job's a game!" so naturally she made a point of playing as many games as possible when she had work to do. He enjoyed this one _a lot_ because he could indulge in other less than innocent fantasies while he dried her dishes.

"Eyes on the task at hand, sir," she advised him as she held up a clutch of clean cutlery.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, standing a little taller as he applied the towel to the forks.

They operated well together, he thought as they made short work of the chore. It was like the way he felt when his platoon had run the obstacle course together down at Coronado during the last round of training he'd done before getting reassigned to track down Bryce "the-douchebag-responsible-for-fucking-up-my-life" Larkin. The smoothness, the rhythm, the awareness of each other in relation to the terrain, it all blended together to make the exercise into some kind of perfectly choreographed dance, just like it was now with her.

The dishes were done so quickly that he had to fight the wave of regret that came with the act of spreading the towel over the loaded drying rack. They'd eaten all of the raspberries and cream, drunk all of the wine, blown out the candles, wiped down the table. It was time for him to collect his leftovers and head on home.

John could've sworn that the CD player was in league with the devil because just as she was taking off her gloves, it changed to a bright, happy swing dance tune that mocked him with its exuberance.

She looked at him, scowled, then pouted while she tapped her foot in time to the rhythm and slapped the gloves on the edge of the sink. "Pumpkin-time already?"

He knew he shouldn't touch her, but he couldn't leave her without putting a smile back on her face. He took her hand and spun her around and her silver eyes sparkled as she rock-stepped in time with the music.

"I didn't know you swing-danced," she said as she let him tug her back into a close hold and they rock-stepped together in perfect rhythm.

"Well now you do," he said, intensely grateful for all those months he'd spent at that dance hall in southern Maryland during his off-hours. "But the real question is, 'do you?'"

"Only one way to find out," she challenged as she followed his lead like they'd been partners for years.

One song became another, then another, and yet another. He was a little rusty and she was a little tipsy, but neither of them cared – they were laughing too hard to notice any deficiency in the other. They showed each other all of the tricks they knew: kicks, jig walks, touch steps, triple steps, passing turns, cuddle holds. They weren't advanced in any way, but it didn't matter because they were having such a good time with each other. They even tried a few easy lifts, but they agreed that they needed more practice before they tried anything more complex.

They were hanging onto the breakfast bar, struggling to breathe, when the last swing song ended and a soft, slow piano melody began.

John pushed himself away from the bar and headed for the fridge. "That's my cue to leave."

"Please, not yet," Ellie objected, placing her hand flush against the refrigerator door to keep him from opening it. "One more?"

He felt his resolve melt into surrender as she gazed up at him.

"One more," he agreed quietly.

He opened his arms to her and it was her turn to melt as she stepped in close. She placed her right hands in his, her left hand coming to rest between his shoulderblades. His right hand circled her waist effortlessly, his thumb brushing the edge of her bra through her shirt as his fingers easily spanned the distance between her hipbone and her ribcage.

They began to sway, their bodies moving together in perfect, languid time as the smoky notes of the torch song stole over them.

_Christ on a crutch, Major, you know this is wrong, so why the fuck are you doing this to yourself?_

"You're so good at this," she whispered against his neck as she put her head on his shoulder and made a soft, sweet sound of contentment.

He felt like howling his heartbreak to the moon, but he didn't. This was the last time he would ever get to hold her and he was going to make the most of it. He brought her right hand up to drape around his neck, wrapped his left arm around her back, and rested his cheek against her forehead as he drew her even closer into him.

His grip on her was light, loose, easy to escape from, but she stayed close. He could feel her dissolving against him, molecule by molecule, as the softness of her breasts yielded to the hard muscles of his chest and the smooth fabric of her jeans abraded his as their thighs met and parted. No man could withstand that kind of temptation, and his body started responding to the nearness of hers.

_Enough was enough_, he told himself as the song came to and end and he stepped away from her. "I have to go."

"I know," she murmured, turning to the fridge.

She handed his container to him, and the disappointment in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees.

_She wants you_, his inner demon taunted, _all you have to do is reach out and take her._

John permitted himself a moment of weakness as he folded a lock of sable hair away from her face.

Ellie's lips parted as she unconsciously turned her cheek to nuzzle his palm.

He clenched his teeth, felt his control slip again as the force of her tenderness stripped him bare.

_Jesus Fucking Christ. _

It was high time she learned that he couldn't be trusted.

He growled low in his throat as he gripped the nape of her neck and slanted his mouth over hers.


	12. Stayed

_God bless Tupperware, _John Casey thought desperately as he loomed over Ellie Bartowski.

It was the third time this weekend she'd put them in this position, and the only thing that stayed him from crossing this last of the clearly delineated lines between them was the press of that plastic container against his solar plexus.

The first time had been happenstance. She was just being playful when she accidentally pulled him down into the snowbank on top of her.

The second time had to have been a coincidence. She'd mistaken an amnestic for Advil while intoxicated and had come on to him with all the subtlety of a Fourth of July fireworks finale.

This latest incident, however, had him thinking that her subconscious and his were in a motherfucking conspiracy with God and all His saints and angels.

Oh yeah, those sick bastards were all having one helluva a good laugh at the expense of their former altar boy as they threw him and his dream girl together over and over and watched the sparks ignite. Like it was one big cosmic, comedic science experiment. Some joke.

One of his hands was braced flat against the door of the fridge, the other was gripping her by the nape of her neck, but she was utterly fearless as she held her ground and his gaze, daring him to give up his control and give into their chemistry. He was blocking her escape, about to break every promise he'd ever made to his commanding officers, his country, and himself, but she was the one holding him captive.

John felt the fingers of her left hand form a fist in the fabric of his shirt as she stared at him, and the soft scrape of one of her nails against his nipple made him slam his eyes shut and shudder. He inclined his forehead towards hers, and grit his teeth as he tried to keep his voice from coming out as a snarl. "Don't."

"Don't what?" she asked, her hand unclenching slowly as her fingertips spanned out to splay against his chest.

John sucked in his breath and held it as her palm glided up his shoulder. _It's not real if I don't open my eyes_, he told himself, but he couldn't help but shiver as her hand, soft and cool, ghosted up the side of his neck and came to rest against the grim line of his jaw. His words were gruff as he ground them out. "Ellie, for the love of God, tell me to leave!_"_

Her voice was heavy with tenderness and longing as she smoothed the silky pad of her thumb from the rough scar on his cheek to the corner of his mouth. "No."

John opened his eyes and looked into hers. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want you to go," she admitted without fear or hesitation as she let her left hand drift down his chest to come to rest at her side.

Sweet Jesus, what could he say to that? He was seconds away from ripping her clothes off and doing her right here on the kitchen floor, and she looked like she welcomed the prospect. He swallowed his panic and made a last-ditch attempt at a Nerd Herd-style Hail Mary. "I'm not a monk, I'm a man. And I'm way too short on self-control right now. If you touch me..."

"If _I_ touch _you_?" she prompted, her smile playful as she lolled her head against the wrist that was attached to the hand that was gripping her skull.

"Oh," he muttered, blushing as he realized the disparity between his words and his actions.

"Yeah," she murmured, biting her bottom lip and looking up at him through her lashes.

He closed his eyes and swallowed – _hard_ – as he released her neck and groped between them for the Tupperware. "Ellie…."

"What?" she whispered.

Oh, God, both of her hands were on him again. This time they were resting on the crests of his hips. "Please."

"'Please' what?" she urged.

His stomach jumped as he felt her slide her thumbs into his belt. "Please don't do this to me."

"Do 'what' to you?" she responded.

He easily had a hundred pounds on her, but it didn't matter one fucking bit as she pushed aside the hand he was using to hold the plastic container, pulled his body up against hers, and treated him to yet another reminder of just how perfectly they fit together.

_Oh no. Gotta get out of here – right fucking _now_ – don't need to explain – just GO! – oh holy fucking Jesus Christ…._

_Too late._

She kissed him.

In the bar, it had been quick, swift, stolen and over in a second.

In the bathroom, it had been hot, fierce, forbidden and forgotten in the morning.

This time, when she kissed him, it was so very different. It was light, loving, and languid, and her lips were lingering against his like she never wanted it to end. Roan Montgomery would have reached for a gin-slopped cocktail napkin to dab at his tears of pride and joy had he been there to witness it.

John sighed in surrender as he felt the last of his control slip away like the leftovers he let fall to the floor.

_Game over._

Ellie responded by winding her arms around his neck and pressing the entire expanse of her body into his as she made a soft, satisfied sound of conquest.

_Game on. _

* * *

_Definitely erasing the tapes from tonight_, he promised himself as he growled low in his throat before pressing her up against the cool door of the refrigerator and pressing his lips against that hot spot on her neck that drove her insane.

"Ohhh!"

One simple syllable – not even worthy of being called a word – was all it took for him to move his mouth back onto hers and pick her up.

Her brain might not remember the position, but her body definitely did. Her legs were up and locked around his waist in a flash as he pivoted them to the counter in front of the breakfast bar. It shifted their height differential, and now she was the one towering above him, a gorgeous, glorious goddess in that garnet babydoll top of hers that made her breasts look even more spectacular than they already were, and those skin-tight jeans that made him drool like a high school student with a raging hard-on.

If he had his way, those jeans were coming off in the next five minutes, tops, and he was going to have her for dessert.

She seemed more than willing to entertain the notion as she slid her hands into his hair while she locked her lips on his and moaned into his mouth.

_God, could it be even better than last night? _he wondered as he went for that place on her throat that made her writhe like she was burning from the inside out. She made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a whimper as she squeezed her thighs around his torso and wriggled her hips in a manner that implored him to escalate the situation. _Well now, we'd have to be classify that as a "Hells, _yes_!"_

He trailed his lips down the line of her neck to the slope of her shoulder and nipped at her skin as he pushed aside her sleeve. She hummed with delight as she tilted her head back to give him easier access and he groaned against her collarbone. He knew all of her moans and that one had to be one of his favorites, that high-pitched sigh that told him that she was moments away from orgasm. Goddamn! He hadn't even gotten to the good stuff yet and she was nearly there.

The animal in him wanted more than anything to mark her as his, but the part of his mind that was still capable of logical reasoning knew that the likelihood of whatever this was between them continuing beyond tonight was slim to none.

Everyone who knew Eleanor Fay Bartowski knew that she was responsible, levelheaded, sensible, sane. Chuck had even reminded him of the fact right before John had willingly chosen to involve himself in this Olympic-level, gold-medal goatfuck the likes of which God had never seen.

He knew he was nothing more than a distraction to her, and this intense, hot, mind-blowing make-out session was probably the last of a series of brief and rebellious pit-stops on her personal highway to staid respectability. The best he could hope for was to minimize the damage he was going to inflict on her, and that meant no bruises, bite marks, or exchanges of body fluid. But how was he going to get out of there without eating her up like she was a fresh pecan pie and he was fiending something fierce for a sugar fix?

Then again, who the fuck could think about leaving with her grabbing the back of his head and rolling her body against his while he let his mouth follow the trajectory of her neckline as his fingers dragged her sleeves and bra straps to the general vicinity of her elbows?

He pulled back slightly, just to make sure last night's hasty recon of her breasts was still accurate.

_Fuck yeah, absolutely fucking perfect_, he noted before he bent his head to take one of her nipples into his mouth.

He'd done his homework. He was not ashamed to say he'd been diligent about viewing every single one of the tapes from the Bartowski apartment in his downtime, and he knew exactly how she liked to be handled. Steady on the lapping, easy on the teeth, with just enough pressure and suction to tease the fuck out of her and drive her out of her goddamn mind.

Confirmation of his technical proficiency was the sharp, shuddering breath she took as she sunk her nails into his skin and then moaned loud enough to wake the entire apartment complex.

Jesus Christ, he didn't think he could get any harder, but the thought of what she would sound like when he finally got to work on her below the waist shot that opinion straight to hell. Outwardly she was all sweetness and innocence, but inside of her lurked a wicked little wildcat with an insatiable sexual appetite that was more than capable of swallowing him whole. And he was more than willing to risk suffocation, a broken neck, hell, any kind of injury she might unwittingly inflict when he finally got the chance to satisfy her in all the ways he'd been fantasizing about since he'd first met her.

God, he'd wanted her since that first day she'd opened her door and let him into her life. She smelled like summer, tasted like sunshine, felt like salvation, and the base, animal side of him wanted to dive into her and drown in her. But if he did….

Fuck it all to hell, if he did they would both be damned: him, for getting involved with an innocent civilian; her, for betraying her commitment to her fiancé.

Could he, in good conscience, destroy her life for a moment of lust?

"No, no, holy fuck, no!" he seethed, hugging her face to his shoulder with one hand as he brought the other down in a clenched fist on the breakfast bar.

_Pain is your friend,_ he reminded himself, relishing the sting as he tried to pull away. _Your ally. It will tell you when you are seriously injured, it will keep you awake and angry, and remind you to finish the job and get the hell home. And that's where you need to be right fucking now. At home. Alone._

But Ellie wouldn't let him detach from her, mentally or physically.

Her hands were steady as they smoothed up and down his back. He breathed deep as he felt the pads of her fingers tracing the scars that mapped the landscape of his skin. For a moment he let himself go there, let himself imagine what it would feel like to be lying tangled up with her in the afterglow, feeling her hands soothing him like they were now.

Jesus fucking Christ, he wanted to cry.

"What is it?" she asked as she tenderly scratched the skin that spanned his shoulderblades.

He shook his head as he hung onto the edge of the counter for dear life.

If he opened his mouth, he was certain that he'd break cover.

Even worse, it horrified him to realize that in that very moment, he just didn't give a shit about maintaining it anymore.

_Fuck the mission. Fuck my career. Fuck the United States of America. All I wanna to do is f– _

"Greetings and salutations, lovebirds! I heartily apologize for the untimely interruption, but Chuck said he was chosen to review _Rise of the Argonauts_ and it's ten days before the release date and someone – _anyone_ – has to get some game play in so we can give honest, open feedback to the many who will be dropping in to get their Ancient Greece fix. You know how it is – ever since _300_ came out, we've had a run on anything and everything with spears, shields, and many steps and columns. Anywho, found it right here on his desk, so I'll heading back the way I came, through the Morgan-door, having made absolutely no attempts to see anything because I am madly, passionately in love with 'my little China doll,' though, as you may guess, she never says 'stop'….and I _definitely_ said too much. My deepest apologies! You two enjoy the rest of your night! As you are wont to say, sir, I hope it's _awesome_!"

* * *

_What's she waiting for?_

John had counted to ten-Mississippi six times since he'd heard the window shut, but Ellie still hadn't moved from the position in which she'd frozen when they'd both realized that there was someone else in the apartment. Her warm, sleek arms were still wrapped around his neck, and her warm, bare chest was still pressed against the dark blue broadcloth button-down he'd decided to wear at the last minute before heading over to her place.

He'd worn the damn thing for her tonight, along with a hint of the cologne she'd told him made him smell amazing the seventh Sunday he'd dined at her table, because she'd told him a long time ago that it was her favorite of his shirts.

He didn't give a shit if it made him a sentimental pussy. He'd have done anything to make her happy in those final minutes they had to be alone together, and this fucked-up, feeble version of a "good-bye" present composed entirely of sensory input was the best he could come up with at a moment's notice. Damn if it was worth it just to see the way she'd smiled at him when she'd opened her door to him earlier that evening, giggling and grinning as she looked him up and down, like a girl about to go on a first date with her high school crush.

Well she wasn't ever going to look at him like that again.

Not after what he'd just done to her.

_Just man up and get it over with, Major_, he ordered himself as he averted his gaze and took his hands off of her.

Try as he might to move slowly and carefully out of her space, he couldn't stop his words from rushing out and tripping over themselves as he tried to unravel himself from her limbs. "I'm so fuckin' sorry – I – I can't – I have to get out of here –"

"Shhh, it's okay," she broke in, her voice calm and compassionate as she pulled her straps and sleeves back up to her shoulders to cover herself. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"I don't know how you can say that after I just – after we…."

Her unemotional voice cut through his as she levered herself off the breakfast bar. "It's my fault. I'm the one who led you on. And I'm pretty sure I've been doing it the whole weekend. Oh God, you must think I'm –"

"I think you're amazing," he confessed.

There.

He'd said it.

While they were both stone-cold sober.

Now she could finally friend-zone him and he could go back to his apartment, go back on duty, and go back to the man he used to be before he fell in love with the most wonderful woman he'd ever met.

"That's funny," she said, a miserable smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I think the same about you."

_Fucking hell._

Why couldn't anything ever go as planned with her?

And the way she was looking at him right then – like she was a surgeon intent on slicing through many, many layers of bluster and bullshit to get at the heart of man he'd locked away twenty years ago – it was freaking him out.

"I should go," he blurted out, frantic to escape the invasive intimacy of her gaze.

"John," she pleaded, "we need to talk about this."

_Talk?_

He'd rather sever his left nut.

"Can I take a raincheck?" he requested brusquely as he bent to retrieve the leftovers. "I've gotta get up early tomorrow."

"No," she said. "Not until you tell me what just happened here."

"It was a mistake," he asserted. "And I'm so fuckin' sorry if I hurt you or scared you. That's the last thing I would ever want to do."

"Wait, wait, hold on a minute," she said, grabbing for the container. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the way I touched you. It was completely inappropriate," he acknowledged, shame filling him from the bottom of his stomach on up. He met her eyes and was surprised to find confusion stamped on her face. "That's what you meant, right?"

"Yes. I mean, no!" she scowled as her cheeks turned pinker.

_God, she is so fuckin' pretty when she blushes_, he thought, and then he mentally slapped himself upside the head. "If not, then what?"

"I meant we should talk about this thing, whatever it is, that's happening between us. I don't know about you, but it's got me all tangled up," she admitted. "You tell me, am I the only one feeling it?"

It was the perfect set-up. He could lie and say it was completely one-sided on her part, and get the hell out of there. But damn it all, he'd never been able to successfully lie to her, and it didn't look like he'd be able to start now.

_Fuck it. _

"No, you're not alone," he admitted. "It's got me, too."

She raised her right hand to push her hair behind her ear, then turned her head to plant her mouth in her palm for a moment. "What are we going to do?"

"Simple," he said, finally meeting her eyes. "We're going to get over it."

_And you're going to get married._

She was quiet for a good long while as she looked up at him. Then she said, "I don't know if I can."

"Jesus, Ellie."

"John," she entreated, putting a hand up to keep him from continuing, "I need to speak my piece and I need you to listen. Will you do that for me? Please?"

He stood there, silent and stock-still, for the better part of ten seconds before he answered. "I'd do anything for you. You know that."

Her eyes went soft. "I do. And that's part of the problem."

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Why don't you give me those leftovers so I can put them in the fridge, and we'll talk in the living room?"

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded.

He was a man of action, but she was a woman of words. He knew from personal experience that nothing good or useful in his life had ever come from talking, but after all that they'd been through, he owed it to her to hear her out. So even though it went against everything in his nature, he willingly did the one thing no one – not his superiors, nor his teammates, nor his partners – would ever believe he would have ever done in a situation like this.

He stayed.


End file.
